Sons of Anarchy Season Zero: The Crow's Nest
by Cole Ortiz
Summary: When John Teller and Piney Winston seek revenge for the man who saved their lives in Vietnam, they find themselves trapped on a path they will never escape from. Set amid the criminal and political violence overtaking 1960s California, this prequel is the story of how JT and his close friends found the club to protect themselves, their town and everything they hold dear.
1. Red Tide

_Author's Note: This is my very first SOA story though I've written a bunch for "24". Just as I wrote a 24 prequel (please read and review that too) I'm doing a prequel here showing the earliest days of the club. I got a lot of info from Sons of Anarchy wikia though I've tweaked a few things here and there. For my "24" readers this story does assume the readers has some knowledge of Sons of Anarchy though y'all will still be able to enjoy it regardless. Just know that this is a different kind of show and these are not the Jack Bauer kinds of heroes even though the Sons here are more heroic in this stage of their history than they appear on the actual seasons. This story does have more action and violence than a lot of the other SOA stories here.  
_

 _The only cast I have in mind is Brantley Gilbert in the role of John Teller. Laugh at this all y'all want but even though Brantley Gilbert is a singer, his performances in the music videos for "Bottoms Up", "One Hell of An Amen" and "More Than Miles" really left an impression on me, and his appearance and mannerisms seem fitting for a Sons member. He was involved in the Athens to Arlington bike ride from Georgia to Arlington National Cemetery to support the troops who are fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq to defend our freedom and our way of life._

 _This story is set decades before I was born so I'm sure older readers will pick out many historical mistakes. However I did try to go for a late 1960s setting unlike my 24 prequel which features a young Jack Bauer yet is set in an unspecified time period that is quite similar to the present day._

 _Rated T for strong bloody violence, torture, language and thematic elements._

CHAPTER 1: RED TIDE

" _The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his" – General George S. Patton, commander of US forces in Europe in WW2_

JANUARY 1968

CAMP BECKLEY, DA NANG AIR BASE, SOUTH VIETNAM

For the past week or so, the sound of artillery and antiaircraft fire echoed through the Southeast Asian night, but tonight it was silent at Camp Beckley, a joint US-South Vietnamese base in the northern tier of the country, only a few miles from the border of North Vietnam. Intel from the Pentagon had indicated that the North Vietnamese army was planning a major offensive across the border in support of the Vietcong guerillas they and the Soviets had been backing in the South.

Tonight, though was a quiet break, thought Lieutenant John Teller of the US Army's 25th Infantry Division as he climbed the service ladder to the rooftop of the three story headquarters building, emerging right below the large American flag that flew up top. This was Tet, the Vietnamese New Year, where fighting died down as people throughout this country observed this holiday and tried their best to reunite with family and friends despite the war going on.

This rooftop, one of the highest spots on the grounds of Da Nang Air Base, was JT's retreat, just like he liked to climb up onto the roof of his father's garage back in Charming and just reflect on his life and write entries for his diary. Here, it also gave JT just the slightest reprieve from the muggy tropical air and the heat that rarely dissipated, not even at night, not even in January. Now the temperatures in Vietnam weren't any higher than back home. In fact, California's Central Valley often saw the mercury push over 100 degrees in the summer while it was only 89 here tonight, but it was the 100% humidity of Vietnam that pushed the heat index to 117 or so, making it far worse than any summer day in Charming.

JT felt the rare sea breeze come in from the South China Sea as he began writing in his diary again. _"I guess people will always ask me what its like killing someone for the first time. To be honest, it's kinda like killing a deer for the first time. I remember my first hunting trip with my dad when I was seven years old when he took us out to our hunting property outside Redding. I remember my first successful kill like it was yesterday as Dad and I crouched silently on the hunting platform as the buck first came into view, then into range. I remember the hesitation I felt, my hands shaking as my father helped me aim the rifle at the deer_

 _"You got this, son, there's no way you'll miss, not from this close." The buck was literally right beneath our platform by then. Then Dad let go of my hands. "It's your shot, son, you need to take it. You need to learn that there ain't nothing wrong with this, nothing you need to worry about." I made myself think about the seven antlers mounted on the wall at Harvey's Family Restaurant, how Mr. Harvey himself had tagged all those deer by himself, and how I wanted to be able to do the same. I forced myself to keep my eyes open as I pulled the trigger and watched the buck fall. "I'm proud of you, son. Damn proud. This is going in our living room, and everyone's going to know that it was you that did it."_

 _I killed a man for the first time last week, and two after that. That first time, we were intercepting an enemy scouting party in the jungle not far from here. I had climbed over a ledge along with Piney and two of our other guys and seen the hostiles on the footpath through the woods. We needed to take them out before they stumbled on our position. I aimed for the target closest to me. For just a few moments, I thought how different it was from training and hitting targets on the gun range, but then I thought of my first hunt with Dad. I never felt bad for killing that buck, and as everyone else in my squad told me, I should feel even less bad about killing this guy. The buck never did nothing to me. With it, it was the thrill of the hunt, the ability to beat him at his own game, on his own home turf. And about the venison that we enjoyed for weeks. It was much the same when I first got the commie in my crosshairs. Of course there was a slight hesitation at the magnitude of what I was about to do, but I knew that would pass as I pulled the trigger and watched the commie fall. He had no idea what had hit him, just like that deer didn't._

 _Soon I put it in perspective though. Whatever initial guilt I had about killing him quickly dissipated as I thought of the much greater guilt I would be feeling if one of my fellow Americans had been killed if I didn't take the shot. The man I shot was my enemy. He was a commie bastard who wanted to kill me because I was American. He had been taught since birth to hate the United States and everything about it – the values we lived by, the God we worship, the way of life that we cherished. If he had a chance, he would kill my family the way the communists killed entire families here in Vietnam, the way the Soviets murdered tens of millions of people in the Siberian prison camps, an even more staggering number than what the Nazi and Japanese war criminals did. And I didn't kill him as a trophy, or for food, or for the thrill of the hunt. I killed him to protect my men. I killed him for my country, for America, for a higher purpose. As Thomas Jefferson said, the tree of liberty had to refreshed from time to time by the blood of patriots and tyrants. I just hope its more of the tyrants, and less of the patriots._

"Up here again?" A voice jolted JT back to his senses. He turned around and saw two men from his platoon, Sergeant Piermont "Piney" Winston and Corporal Otis Cross, standing there. Piney had grown up together with JT in Charming, and Otis came from Lodi, not too far away. They had quickly bonded and become good friends during their basic training in California and their combat exercises in the Florida swamps which were supposed to resemble Vietnam.

"What the hell is that shit, man?" Otis said, smiling as he looked at the diary.

"Oh, nothing, just a diary. Weird, I know," he said, then wanted to change the subject. JT always thought keeping a diary was a girly thing and he certainly was never mistaken for being gay, but he still wish his friends hadn't seen it. "So I heard you had your baby yesterday. Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Boy," Otis replied proudly. "Name's Taddarius."

"Hmmmm….interesting one," Piney replied, "How the hell you come up with that?"

"I didn't, wife did naturally. We thought about Darius but she already knew two other kids with that name and wanted to go creative. I'm sure that's what your mommy or daddy was thinking when they came up with Piermont. Besides his full name's going to be Taddarius Orwell. He can go by T.O. while I'm Otis."

JT smiled and patted him on the back. "That's a good one, gotta give her credit for that." For a few moments, they sat in silence, enjoying the rare quiet as they breathed in the tropical air. "I'm sorry you weren't able to be there for his birth."

Otis nodded. "I know, but I also believe in what we're doing here, what we're fighting for. I'm here fighting for a better world for him, man. If the commies are focusing all their attention on this shithole, maybe they'll focus less on America. I just hope T.O. can grow up not having to learn nuclear attack drills and how to get to the fallout shelters and bunkers when he's in elementary school."

As a black man, life in America certainly hasn't always been easy for Otis. There was a period in time when the billboards on Interstate 580 near Charming openly advertised that blacks were not allowed in certain hotels and restaurants. But the thing about America was that the future was always getting better, while the evil of the Soviet Union and its communist allies grew darker with each passing year.

JT certainly understood these sentiments. His father had joined the Army right after Pearl Harbor and received a Purple Heart on the battlefields of Okinawa while his uncle in the Air Force flew critical sorties first against the Nazis and then in the Korean War. So far, what he had seen in Vietnam was not nearly as bad as what they had experienced, and he hoped it wasn't just a matter of time. Especially since he would be sent on a mission in less than 24 hours. Yes, it seemed peaceful now, but you never knew what could happen.

BRIEFING ROOM, CAMP BECKLEY

JT looked at the men of his platoon, making eye contact with each and every one of them. They were here for various reasons. Many signed up because of their strong convictions in God and country and in fighting the Red threat wherever it reared its ugly head. The past decade or so had seen the mass murder following the Soviet invasion of Hungary and the Soviet engineered revolution that brought Fidel Castro to power in Cuba, right on America's doorstep. If we didn't fight communism and socialism abroad, we would be soon be fighting it at home. Some of the others were just young and restless, having joined for a sense of adventure and self-discovery, or for a possible chance to go to college through the GI bill. JT and Piney Winston were a combination of these things. One thing none of them knew was the price that this ragtag communist enemy in this distant land was about to extract from all of them.

Their platoon had been in combat before, but it was mostly skirmishes against Vietcong irregulars in the jungles outside of Da Nang and a few bouts of street fighting in the town itself. They had thus far taken no casualties.

JT pointed to the large map on the wall showing the immediate Da Nang area with major landmarks and enemy positions. "Gentlemen, we will be moving out for our next mission at 1900 hours tonight. Recent runs by the Air Force U-2 surveillance planes have revealed increasing enemy activity on the spur of the Ho Chi Minh Trail from the Laos border here to the Da Nang region. It is believed that the North Vietnamese Army has been armed with new military hardware straight from the Soviet Union and will be attempting to utilize these weapons in a new offensive in the coming weeks. Our operating area, code named Objective Bluefield, is the junction of this spur and a major route heading southward from North Vietnam. Our unit has been tasked with seizing control of these strategic transportation routes that the enemy may take advantage of in their efforts to expand the war.

"We are not anticipating heavy enemy resistance as intel does not report any large concentration of hostile forces in the vicinity and the self-imposed Tet ceasefire seems to be holding. Make no mistake, gentlemen, this war IS going to heat up again, and its absolutely critical that we maintain the upper hand once it does.

OBJECTIVE RIPLEY, 15 MILES SOUTHWEST OF DA NANG

The company that was dispatched to Objective Bluefield consisted of JT's platoon, another platoon commanded by Lieutenant Derek Lawson and a South Vietnamese platoon led by Sergeant Major Loc Bui, a seasoned officer from Saigon who had been fighting the communists since before the arrival of the first American combat troops in Vietnam in 1965. The twenty mile trip outside of Da Nang took well over three hours since unlike the newly constructed Interstate Highway System back home, a "highway" here was simply a dirt track shared with rickshaws, pedestrians, and herds of farm animals traveling to the nearest market. In addition to the flies and mosquitoes that infested this jungle, a sudden tropical downpour suddenly sent mud and rocks collapsing onto the roadway, causing vehicles in the convoy to be bogged down on several occasions.

The delay would prove to be fatal. It was almost dusk by the time the company reached Objective Ripley, located in a clearing containing a cluster of rice and soybean farms. Here, they were to fan out over the surrounding area before converging again on Objective Bluefield. It was then that the engine on the last jeep, driven by Otis Cross, sputtered to a halt. Otis twisted the key in the ignition again. The engine strained to come back to life but failed. Up ahead, the convoy was stopping and Otis was JT coming out of his vehicle and walking toward him.

"Otis, what happened? Engine trouble?"

"Must be," Otis replied, shaking his head. "This is some bullshit here. Sometimes I'm not even surprised the Japs are taking all the business from Detroit."

"Let me take a look at it. I'm a mechanic, remember?" JT said with a wink. Instead of having a paper route or stocking shelves or painting houses, JT had worked every summer in his father's automotive repair shop and learned much from him. Naturally, his specialty in the Army was vehicles and maintenance. He had Otis pop the trunk and stared inside. "Should have this done in no more than a couple minutes. We'll have the convoy hold."

"Sir, that's not necessary, I know we got delayed already."

"First of all, we need the weapons you're transporting in the slight chance the commies do choose to engage us today. Also I'm not going to let you and your guys to fend for yourselves out here. Stand watch while I fix this son of a bitch."

Otis nodded. "Yes, sir, Lieutenant."

The area looked deserted and JT was on higher alert than before as the convoy rumbled through the settlement while some units were sent to flank the town and make sure no enemy soldiers were hiding in or around the thatched roof huts and that there were no civilians here that sympathized with the Communists. Once past the village, the three platoons were to split up as they made their way across the flooded rice paddies into the thick jungles that began abruptly at the edge of the rice paddies. The sound of helicopter rotors appeared in the distance, then quickly grew louder.

"Didn't know the air cavalry were joining us," Piney remarked, looking up at the darkening sky which thankfully was clearing of the storm clouds, the only lightning now far to the east as the storm moved over the ocean. The choppers were obviously flying low, seemingly hugging the jungle treetops.

"Wasn't aware, could be the Marines too. That low, our radars wouldn't have picked them up. What's with these games they…."

Suddenly a barrage of air-to-surface missiles rained down on JT's platoon as well as on the South Vietnamese one. At least six large explosions tore through the jungle sending fireballs rising into the treetops. The rainstorm was the only reason the entire jungle didn't catch fire from the attack. JT dove for cover then looked up, seeing several American soldiers running around ablaze, screaming to help as the helicopter flew even lower. He gasped as he looked up. What they thought was an Army or Marine aircraft was a North Vietnamese Mi-8 attack helicopter, which meant the commies also had ground forces swarming all over the area.

"All units, take cover!" JT radioed as the enemy pilot turned around for another run, opening fire again, firing more missiles as well as attacking targets on the ground with its heavy machine guns. JT saw that the South Vietnamese platoon was the most exposed, having stopped in an area where a newly cleared part of the forest lined both sides of the road. The enemy aircraft focused on the area, then they heard aggressive screaming in Vietnamese, almost a war cry, as dozens upon dozens of enemies appeared over the ridgelines. The Mi-8 unleashed another massive payload on the South Vietnamese unit. Several soldiers tried to surrender but the gunners on board the helicopter mowed them down with their heavy armaments, also shooting down countless American and South Vietnamese troops in the back as they tried to retreat.

"Piney, I need the Redeye now!" he ordered, referring to the FIM-43 Redeye, an American shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile that was a precursor to the Stinger missile. "Make sure you have a clear line of fire!" Piney nodded and ran back toward one of the transport trucks, removing the missile. They hadn't carried it on their person since this attack was definitely unexpected. It was more than an ambush. They had stumbled upon a massive coordinated enemy offensive. The enemy's ground forces alone were probably enough to overwhelm any stand the Americans tried to take, but unless the Soviet-made chopper was destroyed, they were looking at a wholesale slaughter of their unit. Different men were trying to check in with JT, but it was clear that over half of his platoon was already killed or wounded.

Piney finally took aim with the Redeye as the Mi-8 came to face them as its machine guns concentrated on the Americans on the ground. As the Americans' attention was taken by the large deadly aircraft, the enemy ground troops took advantage of the chaos and quickly advanced toward the road. JT screamed in anguish as he saw one of the guys from his unit, a young man barely past his 18th birthday, bravely open fire with his assault rifle in a futile attempt to stop the aircraft then get cut down. He aimed straight at the front of the helicopter and prepared to fire but ducked as the machine gun fire from the front of the enemy lines struck the ground around him.

"Fuck!" Piney cursed as the missile left the launcher. The North Vietnamese pilot quickly banked to the left, but the missile nonetheless struck the rear of the aircraft, an explosion tearing off the tail including the back rotors. Thick black smoke poured out of the Mi-8 as it went into an uncontrolled spin. Several enemy soldiers were thrown out of the doomed aircraft, screaming as they fell to their deaths. The Mi-8 crashed into a muddy hillside, right in the middle of the enemy's ground advance and exploded, wiping out a large contingent of commie soldiers.

JT slapped Piney on the back and breathed a temporary sigh of relief despite knowing he was still in the heat of the battle. "Good work, Piney! You taught those Red fuckers a lesson."

"God bless America," Piney said, nodding. JT saw what he was trying to do. "Smart thinking." Piney now turned the missile launcher toward another clump of commies who were now charging into the clearing. He took aim at the center of the group and fired again, the missile exploding right in the middle of the advance, scattering the dead bodies of the commies all over the field and up into the sky. He had one missile left and aimed it on the hillside, triggering a mudslide that came tumbling down on more than twenty communist soldiers, burying many of them alive and sending the rest tumbling to the ground where the American machine gunners were able to make good use of their weapons. JT knew it wasn't over, however. The enemy attached no value to human life, not even their own soldiers. This was how fervently they held their evil beliefs. No matter what the cost to themselves, they would fight on until every single American and South Vietnamese was killed or captured. JT, Piney, and the other Americans would not make it easy for them. They would extract a heavy cost in blood from these Red pinkos.

JT saw three commies coming over a short ridge behind some overgrowth and squeezed off a long burst with his assault rifle. He heard the three men scream and tumble down the hill and into a creek below with a splash. Two more enemy soldiers appeared with a mobile grenade launcher. The first grenade flew over JT and Loc's head but impacted a South Vietnamese Humvee , incinerating two soldiers who were taking cover behind it in the firefight.

At the same time, Lawson grabbed the radio, desperately trying to call base. "This is Lawson, we're one click east of Objective Bluefield in the clearing just outside the village, we have an enemy human wave attack coming at us from two directions, requesting air support immediately!"

"Say again," came the reply from Da Nang. "What is your position again? What kind of opposition….." It was clear from the voice that US Command was taken completely by surprise. The last two days had been among the most peaceful ones in Vietnam in months, ostensibly so both sides could observe Tet.

"We've been attacked by at least two full companies of the North Vietnamese Army! We need airstrikes on the hills above Objective Bluefield and toward our egress…."

Suddenly a sniper bullet fired by the enemy struck the radio and forced Lawson to take cover. "Jesus Christ!" Another American soldier opened fire in the general direction of where the bullet came from but had no visual on the sniper. The communist sniper sent a second bullet flying into the soldier's forehead, splattering pieces of his brain and skull fragments all over Lawson. This was all surreal. Those bastards, JT thought. Using their own new year to mount this attack, ignoring their own culture's time honored traditions that the South Vietnamese still respected. To the communist enemy, nothing was sacred, nothing at all.

"We need to retreat back to the east!" Lawson shouted at JT.

He acknowledged with some hand motions. "What's the ETA on those Hueys? If our guys don't start pounding those commies from the air we won't be able to hold the line!"

JT knew that with communications cut and no American reinforcements on the way, the only option for any of them was for some of the vehicles to make it back to Da Nang and alert their superiors about what happened so that they could either finally send backup to relieve the men at Objective Ripley or in a worse case scenario to mount a rescue operation of captured Americans taken into enemy-controlled territory. In order to do this, he had to finish making the repairs to the last jeep. Both Otis and Loc, the South Vietnamese platoon leader, were furiously engaging the approaching with their machine guns, opening fire on the treeline. They heard a scream and saw an AK-47 flung into the air as an attacking commie fell dying.

"JT, you take cover!" Loc screamed as he also opened fire with the heavy machine gun, blasting at the enemy troops concentration coming from the jungle road. The American made weapon was much louder and powerful than the enemy, tearing through the dense forest and sending leaves and pieces of tree bark showering down all over the battle zone.

"No, Loc!" JT shouted back through the sound of the gunfire, whizzing bullets and explosions as he made another turn on his wrench in the jeep's engine. "I got this! The vehicle's almost up and running again, our other units are all pinned down, we need you to get back to Da Nang with Otis and tell them the details of what's going on. I don't have time for you to translate what the hell those commies are saying about their plans for us."

On the other side of the hill, several more North Vietnamese troop transports pulled up and deposited dozens of more enemy soldiers while a BTR-40 armored personnel carrier and two Chinese-made Type 62 tanks came around a bend, acquiring a visual on the American units. By now the South Vietnamese platoon had been completely decimated as they had returned to Objective Ripley to help defend against the onslaught. Loc and two other South Vietnamese were the only survivors. The other American platoon had also taken heavy casualties and were falling back into a defensive position, crouching down in the flooded rice paddies set amid the burning thatched huts of the village. A round from the first enemy tank struck the middle of the rice paddy. JT heard a scream and saw a shower of blood as several American soldiers were blown apart. This was followed by another round as the communists decided to concentrate their fire on the retreating Americans.

About four or five more sprouts of water erupted from the rice field as the North Vietnamese tanks continued to fire in an attempt to slaughter or flush out the remaining Americans. Another round went straight into the stopped convoy, destroying the first American jeep.

"Piney, Lawson, y'all need to hold them back until I get this thing running!" JT shouted as he continued to work on the jeep. A young private from Oregon named Steve Tucker aimed an anti-tank missile along with Piney as several other soldiers rearmed his weapon for him. Piney aimed a missile straight at the first Type 62 destroying it completely. The BTR-40 troop transport and the other Type 62 both turned off the road, crashing through a small fence, the BTR-40 screeching to a halt, throwing up a large amount of muddy water as the Type 62 continued past the burning wreckage of the first communist tank.

"Tucker, I need you to take out both remaining vehicles. The commies will be dumping their troops off that transport, me and Lawson have to engage them before they scatter and provide more fire against us." Piney squeezed the young man's shoulder in a fatherly way. "You're doing great son. I'm proud of you."

Tucker nodded as he took aim at his targets. "I hate these commie bastards." In the meantime, JT continued desperately working on the engine then stepped back. "Try it now!" he called up to Otis in the driver's seat.

"Yes, sir, lieutenant!" Otis responded and turned the ignition. Smoke poured out of the engine but it sputtered and died.

"Goddammit!" JT struck the side of the jeep in frustration. "Son of a bitch!" He forced himself to remain calm. He had been around various kinds of vehicles his entire life given that his father owned one of the busiest automotive repair shops and garages in not just Charming but all of San Joaquin County, attracting business from as far away as Lodi and Stockton. This was his first time having to repair a vehicle with gunfire and men dying all around him but the men he served with depended on it. Soon they would be overrun and captured, and this was the only way they could get help.

The communist tank commander adjusted the turret of the second Type 62, lining it up with the clump of American vehicles left on the road. At that moment, an antitank missile fired by Tucker slammed into the tank, its engine fluids quickly igniting. The explosion was muffled by the heaviness of the tank but killed its entire crew instantly. Then the weapons on board the tank exploded, showering the advancing enemy troops with wreckage.

As Piney had predicted, North Vietnamese infantry troops began pouring out of the BTR-40. Not all of them had made it out before Tucker's missile made a direct hit, creating a large explosion that completely tore apart the vehicles. At least four commies were caught in the blaze, either dying in the explosions or running around in flames as they burned to death. The remaining commies from the transport were still heavily concentrated, giving Piney and Lawson and target rich environment. The two Americans set up their machine gun mounts in several spots, unleashing a furious and relentless hail of gunfire. More enemies were appearing but Piney and Lawson mowed them down quickly, one line after another of enemy infantrymen collapsing on the ground, some tripping over the bodies of their dead comrades.

"Any progress, JT?" Piney shouted back. "We got more of these bastards coming, I don't know how much longer we can hold our position!"

"Almost done! Should be less than a minute!" replied JT.

One of the commies who had fallen into the creek was still alive, raising up his machine gun and opening fire in the direction of JT's platoon. A round struck Tucker in the lower leg, sending him to the ground in pain. "Shit! Jesus Christ!" he cursed as he looked at his pants which were quickly being soaked in blood. JT turned his attention from the hilltop to the creek and finished off the commie with a long burst to the chest, sending him back into the water, permanently this time.

Sparks flew in JT's face and he turned away. "Fuck!" He worked on the engine for a little bit more as Otis popped up behind the engine block, shooting down a commie charging through the woods, then two more.

"I'm almost done with this," JT told Loc, then shouted to several of his men as he saw seven commies making their way down a hill, taking turns firing at the American and South Vietnamese troops on the dirt road. "I need the rockets down! I count at least a half dozen commies in our two o'clock position on the hillside approaching our unit. Concentrate your fire there!"

Piney crawled along the putrid jungle ground, aiming his Glock pistol at two commies moving a crate with Russian lettering on it, no doubt more grenades for the team already attacking the company. Piney made sure he had a full round in his pistol and shot the first commie in the head, causing his comrade to drop the crate and lose his balance. Piney whirled around as a hail of return fire hit the clump of trees. The commie carrying the crate now had a visual on Piney, as did the two commies with the grenade launcher. Piney shot the commie twice in the chest then took cover again. He saw a smoke trail as the explosives team turned their attention to him. Piney dove head first into the creek, the RPG instead exploding next to a group of enemy soldiers killing them. At this moment, JT pulled the pin off his hand grenade as hard as he could and hurled it up. The two commies manning the RPG didn't even see it coming. The explosion was powerful enough to send both commies flying into the air, depositing one of them in the treetops.

This time, the engine roared to life, Otis breathing a sigh of relief. JT almost shoved Loc into the passenger seat then turned his attention to another jeep. "Escort them back to Da Nang! Go! Go! Go!"

Otis quickly backed up, crashing into some jungle bushes, then hightailed it back from where they came from followed by the other jeep, even as the communist forces tried to close off their escape route. Loc went to the back of the jeep, opening fire with the mounted machine gun, killing six more attacking commies before they were out of range, speeding through impoverished villages on their way back to Da Nang.

"Fuck!" JT cursed, "We could have outflanked them, we could gotten past these motherfuckers! " He shook his head in frustration. It seemed like more than a full company of enemy troops was upon them. To his right, he saw three American soldiers get cut down by enemy fire. As many commies as they killed, more were coming.

"It's hopeless now, JT!" Lawson radioed in. "I don't for a moment believe this bullshit about the Geneva Conventions but they're intent on killing us all no matter how many men they lose. We're not dealing with a rational enemy here."

"If they're right in the head they wouldn't be commies," JT retorted as he reloaded and shot down an enemy soldier wildly screaming Stalinist slogans as he charged with a grenade. The grenade landed where the commie fell, killing another group of the enemy.

"You know I'm ready to go down fighting but I'm not going to sentence all these boys to death," Lawson told JT, killing a commie with a shot through the throat.

"Surrender now! You are outnumbered and your position is exposed!" a voice boomed through a bullhorn in heavily accented English. "If you surrender peacefully, you will be treated in accordance to the United Nations laws of war. If not, you will be killed to the last man!"

 _Author's Note: Part of JT's journal entry was inspired by passages in the "American Sniper" book by Chris Kyle. That is a book that I recommend everyone read, and see the movie too! Both are excellent._


	2. Enemies of the Revolution

_Author's Note: As it was just Memorial Day and ironically this portion of the story deals with the Vietnam War, I would like to take this opportunity to draw attention to the thousands of American MIA/POWs who were left behind by our own government for political reasons after the end of the war. It is important that we as a nation never forget them._

CHAPTER 2: ENEMIES OF THE REVOLUTION

 _"The road to glory is built by the bodies of our enemies" - Vietnamese National Anthem (originally from North Vietnam)_

OBJECTIVE BLUEFIELD, 15 MILES WEST OF DA NANG, SOUTH VIETNAM

Four of the South Vietnamese soldiers had surrendered, shouting frantically in Vietnamese as the shadowy silhouettes of the enemy troops appeared in the rising smoke like ghastly apparitions. The fires from the grenade explosions only added to the hellish scene.

"Come forward! Keep you hands in the air!" a harsh voice shouted from the enemy lines. "Understand?"

One of the surrendering South Vietnamese soldiers translated the orders into English. JT and the other two surviving members of his team had no choice but to comply, crawling or walking slowly several dozen yards behind their South Vietnamese allies.

"Long live the Communist Party! Long live the Paramount Leader!" a voice screamed, then an enemy machine gun opened up, mowing down all four South Vietnamese soldiers within seconds.

"Jesus Christ," JT gasped. He couldn't say that he was exactly surprised at what had happened. The North Vietnamese, like the Soviets who supported them, were a savage, bloodthirsty enemy fighting for an ideology that could never coexist peacefully with Western democracy. He prepared to draw his weapon again, thinking if the communists had intended to kill them all anyway, he would go down fighting and take down as many of them as he could. Then, however, he saw what appeared to be a higher ranking communist shove the gunner away. This time the machine gun was fired in the air.

"Hold your fire! I said hold your fire, Comrade Sergeant!" a high-ranking North Vietnamese officer, Major Truong, said.

"We must kill all of the capitalists and the American imperialists who support them, Comrade Major!" Sergeant Pham, the machine gunner who had massacred the surrendering soldiers, said, "We must saturate this soil with their blood. These are the words of our Paramount Leader. Ho Chi Minh demands it!"

"Do not forget your place, Comrade Pham," Major Troung shot back, "Are you questioning my orders? Do you doubt my loyalty to the Communist Party?" Truong had the robotic look and mannerisms of a cold, calculating killer while Pham was more of a raging revolutionary thug like most of the other commies.

"No, of course not, Comrade Major," Pham replied quickly, giving him the communist salute.

"I admire your revolutionary spirit, though," Troung told him quietly in Vietnamese. "We needed the Americans to surrender. Remember how useful their information may be. After their usefulness to us is gone, of course they will die, and that will be fun to watch, I promise you, Comrade."

"Yes, Comrade!" Pham shouted energetically in response as if he was a football player gearing up for a game. "For the glory of the Paramount Leader!"

Major Truong smiled and looked at the other two remaining South Vietnamese soldiers. "They, however, know nothing useful. They are only the stooges of the Americans." He then took out a large hacksaw as a Soviet made tarped truck filled with communists pulled up. The North Vietnamese soldiers violently herded JT and the other Americans onto the truck, spitting on them, jamming their weapons into their chests and kicking and beating them, screaming obscenities and shouting socialist slogans in Vietnamese. JT saw that they were armed with the newest, most advanced assault weapons from the Soviet Union and China.

After two minutes, Truong barked more orders, and the communist soldiers who had been beating the Americans stopped, falling back and standing at attention. Truong took a puff on his cheap Soviet cigarette and blew the smoke into JT's face, then spit right into his forehead. JT seethed in anger.

"You are now prisoners of the People's Army of Vietnam. My name is Comrade Major Truong," the Communist said in halting English. "I know your unit is based at the American base in Da Nang. Is this correct?" Truong demanded. He was met with silence. JT was expecting another brutal beating, but it didn't come, at least not yet. Instead, the menacing Communist officer simply stared back at him with an ice cold expression that masked a brutal savagery.

"I hope you understand, Corporal Teller," he said, looking at the name on JT's uniform, "that there is nothing I will not do to raise the Red Banner over this land and purge it of the West's poisonous influences. So here is what is going to happen. You will be taken to a position behind our lines, and you will be asked a number of questions. If you and your men do not cooperate, I will now give you an example of the consequences. You know the French guillotine, that is clean and quick. I will now show you the communist way."

Truong dragged the first South Vietnamese POW over and began sawing into his neck, blood spraying everywhere. The communist officer smiled sadistically as he purposely did it as slowly and painfully as possible. At first, the POW screamed in pain, then JT heard a sickening gargle as he began chocking on the blood. It took more than a minute before the POW's head was completely severed from his neck. "That is not the worst that can happen, American. You will learn that you will have no choice but to do as we command."

VILLAGE OF HOI AN, SOUTH VIETNAM

It was another scene from hell as the North Vietnamese transport truck arrived at the small farming and fishing village that the Communists were using for their forward operating base. The terraced rice paddies outside the small town was dotted with Soviet-made tanks, heavy artillery, and antiaircraft guns. JT saw several of the commies firing their weapons into the air and shouting revolutionary slogans and insults as the truck carrying the captured Americans drove past the defensive positions into the heart of the village. Most of the village had been set ablaze, civilians still screaming as the commies went house-to-house, killing the village's residents at will in a mass slaughter. At this moment JT was more determined as ever to make these savages pay if he ever had the chance. The enemy soldiers were also ransacking and vandalizing privately owned businesses and setting fires all across the village. A few minutes later, they were waved into a large compound close to Hoi An's fishing harbor, where North Vietnamese soldiers were busy dousing several boats with gasoline and lighting them on fire. The Paramount Leader Ho Chi Minh had decreed that the civilian population of South Vietnam would pay a heavy price for rejecting the principles of the Communist Revolution and allying themselves with America.

As he and the other Americans were herded off the transport, being prodded like cattle by the sneering North Vietnamese guards, he prayed that somehow those jeeps were able to reach Da Nang and that help was on the way. This far north, the communists could easily take them across the border, maybe even to the infamous torture chambers of the Hanoi Hilton, or even worse hand them over to the Soviets to be taken to Siberia. In that case, there was no way he would ever see Charming again.

AMERICAN COMMAND HEADQUARTERS, DA NANG AIR BASE

Otis Cross forced everything out of the repaired engine as the military jeep sped back to base as fast as the muddy unpaved dirt roads of South Vietnam allowed it to. Nonetheless, an hour and a half had passed before they finally hit the heavily potholed pavement as they entered the town of Da Nang. They knew something was up as they drove through the center of town on the way to the military base. Usually at this time of night, the streets of Da Nang would be packed with American GIs and South Vietnamese soldiers enjoying the bars, brothels, and massage parlors that dominated the town's nightlife, but tonight the only troops in town were on high alert with roadblocks set up at major road junctions and civilians cowered in their homes, with many businesses shut down early. The festive mood of the Tet holiday was decidedly absent.

Otis immediately reported to his superior officer, Colonel Shawn Adkins, along with Sergeant Major Loc Bui of the South Vietnamese Army. They saluted quickly and Adkins got straight to the point.

"What the hell happened out there today? Where's JT and the rest of y'all?" he said with concern in his grizzled voice.

"Sir, we were caught in the front of a massive enemy offensive. We were attacked by at least two full companies of North Vietnamese troops aided by attack helicopters, tanks, and heavy artillery. We were able to take out most of their equipment but we were overrun by communist infantry. While we were able to inflict heavy casualties on the Red bastards, they also took out most of my men. JT sent us here after our radio was destroyed by enemy fire. JT and at least five or six other Americans were taken prisoner. Sir, we all fought very bravely. God is my witness when I say this. They had us completely outnumbered."

Adkins nodded with a glum expression on his face. "I know, Sergeant. JT is one of my finest men. We're hearing about widespread hostile activity and large scale surprise attacks all over the country. If JT was outnumbered by that much, he made a decision to preserve the lives of the soldiers he can. Any idea where they might have been taken?"

Cross motioned toward the South Vietnamese military officer. "This is Sergeant Major Loc Bui. He was able to overhear some of the enemy conversations during the battle before JT had to surrender and we had to return to Da Nang."

"Please proceed, Sergeant Major," Adkins said, pacing the room and fanning himself with some papers despite the ceiling fan already spinning at top speed. Despite the fan and the rusty window unit air conditioner that struggled to stay on through the oppressively muggy night, all of them were drenched in sweat.

"Thank you, Colonel Adkins," Loc said respectfully. "The enemy was bragging about how they've taken control of Hoi An and set up their temporary occupation headquarters at the fish market by the docks. They also spoke of taking the captured Americans there and questioning them for information about this very base we are on and our tactical plans for the next few months. Sir, if I may, I highly doubt they intend to ever release JT or the other Americans alive. I saw them murder several of my men in cold blood after they had surrendered, including two who were beheaded as slowly as possible. I heard them speaking of doing worse things to the Americans after they get the information from them, possibly handing them over to the Soviets to be taken to Siberia."

Adkins slammed his fist into his table, leaving a dent in it. "Goddamn it! Those fucking communist pigs!"

"I know, sir. We have fought them here far longer than you have. Vietcong rebels in Saigon dragged my brother out of his house and shot them on the street in front of all his neighbors. My sister-in-law was then taken to North Vietnam to be a sex slave for their army. I swear I hate these communists at least as much as you do for what they've done to my country. They claim to be liberating Vietnam from Western influences, but they are slaves and puppets for Soviet Russia. I want to be involved in any rescue attempt, sir. My men will be ready and we know Hoi An very well. Many of them are from this area. We will kill the commie bastards including any Russians we come across."

Colonel Adkins made a cautious motion. "Whatever attempt at getting those men back has to go through the chain of command. Trust me this is a priority for us and everything the two of you just told me will be passed on immediately. I need some clarification on one thing, though. Sergeant Bui, you mentioned the Russians. It's common knowledge that the Soviets are bankrolling and supplying the North Vietnamese and the Vietcong but are you saying they have a presence on the ground? The Soviet Embassy in Hanoi has vehemently denied this."

"Please, sir. We both know that a Soviet cannot open his mouth without lying," Loc said bitterly. "And yes, there was talk of having the Russians take a look at the American prisoners. We've always suspected they have advisors on the ground working directly with and training the Communist enemy including the brigades that are stationed near the border. This only confirms what we have all suspected for a long time."

Adkins shook his head. "This is not good. Not good at all. It can definitely complicate things."

NORTH VIETNAMESE FIELD HEADQUARTERS – HOI AN FISH WHOLESALE MARKET

Since the peddlers and fish merchants were engaged in commerce, they were considered enemies of state socialism and had been publicly executed one by one as the North Vietnamese soldiers and communist supporters laughed, jeered, and through objects at them. Their bodies were still laying in a heap in the front of the market for all the passerby to see as an example of the fate that befell them if they resisted the North Vietnamese invaders. Sergeant Pham had all five American POWs lined up in a row along a moldy wall as a half dozen Communists stood guard with weapons ready. All of them had the eyes of crazed killers whose bloodlust was not sufficiently satisfied by their rampage against the villagers.

JT and the soldiers were first led into what used to be a merchants association office, where pictures of Ho Chi Minh and Vladimir Lenin had been abruptly hung upon the Communist takeover of the town. A loudspeaker was playing the Vietnamese rendition of the Internationale, the worldwide communist anthem. Sergeant Pham grabbed JT and shoved him forward in front of all his men so he faced the imposing Communist portraits. At the same time, Major Troung embraced a non-Vietnamese man who looked toward the Americans with an evil sneer. While this man wore unmarked jungle fatigues, his typical Soviet haircut and the Russian vodka bottle he held in his hand gave him away as one of the Red Army advisors.

"You will kneel before the leaders of our glorious revolution," said Pham to JT.

"Fuck you!" JT said, looking him straight in the eye.

Pham spat. "Even the foot soldiers of the capitalist bourgeois show this arrogance. I must make you humble yourself, Corporal Teller." Pham ordered two communists to grab JT, holding him tight then began beating him brutally. Pham jammed his jackboots into JT's stomach, the American doubling over uncontrollably, though he immediately tried to get up through the pain. JT then punched him twice in the face and again in the abdomen. This time, JT was unable to get up. Pham screamed, mustering more of his strength then came upon JT again then kneed him in the chest, backfisting him so that he slid several feet across the floor. Pham then ordered one of his men to bring him a rattan cane.

"Hyaaaaa!" Pham screamed maniacally as he brought the cane down on JT several times. "You dare disrespect our Paramount Leader? Death to America! Death to all capitalists!"

"I told you that you will bow before the leaders of the socialist proletariat!" Pham screamed again, grabbing a chunk of hair on the back of JT's head and slamming his head into the ground. JT was on the verge of losing consciousness, but Pham forced him back to his feet. "You are nothing, Corporal Teller," Pham said with a deranged look in his eyes. "America is nothing."

The Soviet man chuckled wickedly, shaking his head at the Americans. "In the Soviet Union, our methods are of course more high tech, but I am impressed at how you make do with what you have, Comrade," he said in Russian. "The way you are teaching this arrogant American his lesson is more….more spirited. I enjoy watching this."

"I am honored by your compliments, Comrade," Troung, who had been overseeing the entire session, responded. "We all serve the Revolution."

"Take them to the prison! Extract the information from them!" Pham then ordered, but as his subordinates came to move the POWs to the holding area, the Soviet advisor spoke up again.

"One moment," he said simply in Russian.

" _Da_ , Comrade Gavrilov?" Troung replied, also speaking Russian as he addressed Red Army Colonel Yevgeniy Gavrilov by name. He motioned for Pham to stop and follow the Soviet's instructions.

"You say the ones who give up the information will be used for slave labor," Gavrilov continued in Russian, knowing none of the Americans spoke his language. He nodded to Steve Tucker who was also already limping from his injuries in the battle where he had been grazed by a bullet and sprained his ankle while going through the jungle while retreating from the communist assault on their position. Tucker was also the skinniest of the soldiers and likely to last the shortest amount of time in a North Vietnamese or Siberian labor camp. Gavrilov removed a Soviet pistol from his holster and took another shot of his Russian vodka. "Then maybe you can spare him as a favor to me."

 _"Da, tovarich,_ of course," came Pham's natural reply. After all, the North Vietnamese depended on Moscow for their class warfare against the capitalists of the South and against the West.

"Besides, you can never strike enough fear into the hearts of our enemies," Gavrilov, said, switching to English, walking over to the wounded American. JT knew what was about to happen and tried to tear loose but the North Vietnamese soldiers holding him down kicked him again then tied his hands together with some rope.

"I want you to look into my eyes, and see the face of the man who will end your life, American," Gavrilov said to Steve Tucker in his menacing Russian accent. "I am Yevgeniy Gavrilov. I serve the Politburo of the Soviet Union. I cannot count the number of people I have killed for my beliefs. South Vietnamese, South Koreans, Hungarians, and Czechs. Nothing gives me more pleasure, however, than to kill an American soldier. You and I are sworn enemies, American, so this is a moment I will relive, and drink to, and take pride in for the rest of my life. I will look back on his moment, and know that I have performed my duty to the Soviet Union. I will return to Moscow and tell my father about this moment, American, and he will embrace me in his arms, and he will tell me that he is proud to have raised a good son who kills our enemies without mercy."

Gavrilov raised the pistol and pointed it at the soldier's head, but that wasn't enough. The Soviet officer forced the gun into the American's mouth, shoving it deep into his throat. "Long live the revolution," he said in Russian in a psychotic trance, then finally pulled the trigger, unleashing a shower of blood and brain matter across his own uniform, the other POWs, and the ground. He then told the North Vietnamese to carry on. Soon the Americans were taken into a storage area that the enemy was using as a makeshift prison.

Pham then took over again. "I hope this convinces you that you will not be awarded any special treatment because you are Americans. We do not care about the Geneva Convention. We will do what it takes to get the information we need from you."

"And then, you will work for the Communist Revolution by helping to repair the bridges and roads damaged by your cowardly American bombers." Of course Pham didn't add the part where after this, they would be worked to death in the socialist prison camps alongside the South Vietnamese enemies of the Hanoi regime, including anyone who or whose family had ever owned a private business.

Derek Lawson spat on the ground and Truong whirled around, his eyes wide with psychotic rage. "Go to hell, you fucking commie pinko, and your Russian friends too." Lawson and JT loved the United States with every fiber of their being, and would love nothing more than to be fighting and killing Soviets, but the North Vietnamese, doing to South Vietnam what the Soviets had taught them, were the next best thing.

Troung stepped in front of Lawson and saw the Christian cross around his neck. He ordered Pham to move away, saying he would take over at this moment. He violently yanked it off but Lawson didn't even flinch. "This is why there can never be peace between us, American," Truong said. "You believe in the Bible. I believe in the Communist Manifesto. Except, American, what I believe in is real."

He stepped back and spoke to all of the Americans. "Once again, I know you are all based at the imperialist base at Da Nang. You will tell me details of the base, the number of Americans and South Vietnamese stationed there, the regular patrol patterns, and the kinds of aircraft that is based there. I also demand to know the details of any operations that you will be tasked with in the next few weeks, and information about reinforcements coming from the United States. I promise you that you WILL give me this information. The only difference is how much pain you will experience and witness before you do so."

Truong then barked some orders in Vietnamese and one of the soldiers came forward holding a box that had been set on a metal table. Truong removed the lid, revealing a poisonous green jungle snake which he lifted out of the box. Evidently, he had been trained in snake handling and the serpent seemed to obey his commands. Truong went back to Lawson and the snake lashed out, biting him once on the shoulder, drawing only a bit of blood, but the pain was immediate and intense and Lawson gritted his teeth, being to sweat profusely.

Truong went back to the box, removing a small vial with a syringe and needle attached to it. "This is a slow acting venom," he said, addressing not just Lawson but all the American prisoners. "Death will come over the course of an hour as the poison makes its way to his heart, his lungs, and his brain. This is the antivenom to the snake. Lawson, I will administer this the moment you or one of your friends tells me the information I demand. You have the power to save yourself, and your friends have the power to save you."

"I will proudly die for my country, and so will every man here." Lawson said weakly, "I will be in heaven with my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, while you will be burning in hell along with the rest of your army because one day we're going to kill you and we're going to lay waste to North Vietnam the way we did to Japan and Germany. You'll be sorry you ever fucked with us."

Truong smiled evilly. "God will not save you. But I can save you, if you let me."

CAMP BECKLEY, SOUTH VIETNAM

Otis Cross and Loc Bui were finally called back into Colonel Adkins's office more than three hours later. They wondered what had taken their senior officers and the higher ups in the chain of command to response. They knew that with every minute that passed, the chance of getting JT, Piney, Lawson and the other captured Americans from their platoon back from the enemy diminished. They were not aware that the military had just been caught in the largest coordinated enemy offensive so far in the entire war.

"A rescue operation is not realistic at this time," Colonel Atkins said, "What your platoon went through is now happening all over the country. We have North Vietnamese forces and Vietcong fighters engaging our positions in at least four different areas in Da Nang Province alone, and this offensive is happening everywhere from here to Saigon. In fact they're reporting street fighting in Saigon only a few miles from the American Embassy and the presidential palace."

"Sir, if we counterattack, that may help keep the enemy disorganized and delay their offensive," Otis pointed out. "The commies are going to have to bring some men back to the north to protect their FOB in the village. This will be beneficial to the larger theater of battle in addition to allowing us to get JT and the other guys back."

Atkins sighed. "There's another issue, gentlemen," he said, "And believe me, I don't like this but my hands are tied. As you pointed out, Sergeant Major Bui, there are Soviet advisors on the ground in Hoi An working with the North Vietnamese, and possibly even playing a role in directing and planning this offensive. This confirms what our intelligence reports have been telling us. We do know chatter between North Vietnam and the Soviet Union has gone up significantly in the past month or so, and that the Soviet ambassador to North Vietnam recently visited the border area with a contingent of who we believe are Red Army officers and/or KGB agents."

"So what, sir? This ain't exactly news to any of us."

"If we send a team in and engage the Red Army…."

"It's only a couple of advisors, Colonel! Advisors that they don't even fucking admit are on the ground! If anything, we'll have proof that the Soviet ambassador's lying through his teeth!"

"You need to watch your attitude, Corporal Cross. And regardless of how many, it will be a direct confrontation against Soviet forces. Washington is extremely wary of the consequences. It could very well lead to an international incident. Plus I don't think you understand the global politics The Soviets' current denial won't mean a thing if we have dead Russian soldiers arriving back in Moscow in body bags."

"So the fucking cowards in Washington would rather see _American_ soldiers in body bags, or better yet American soldiers who are never seen again at all? Just for political expediency? Is that it? Are we hearing this bullshit correctly?" Winston yelled, slamming his fist on the wall so hard that even his commanding officer was taken aback. "This is bullshit! We can't just let this stand!"

"You're out of line, soldier!" Adkins yelled back, getting up.

"I don't care right now! I came here to kill commies, I don't give a damn if they're North Vietnamese, Russian or whatever! You're saying we're going to let our own boys rot and die at the hands of those animals because going after them might offend the sensibilities of some latte drinking bureaucrat in Washington who has never even set foot in Vietnam? And I'm sure as hell not going to let the commies take them to Russia so they can guinea pigs for torture experiments. Sir, they sent us over here to fight a war and kill the enemy. Let us do our job!"

"Again this is out of my hands. The answer is final. This meeting is over. You're dismissed."

The two men quickly filed out of their room, where more of their fellow soldiers were waiting, including another young man from Charming by the name of Clay Morrow. He was a private who had just been transferred up from Saigon. He already was on his way to being a decorated soldier with six kills under his belt, all of them in a large firefight against Vietcong irregulars on the banks of the Mekong River. Clay knew the North Vietnamese Army was better trained, but he felt ready for them too.

"Y'all heard that?" Otis asked in the most aggravated tone of voice they had ever heard him use.

"Yeah. That's some goddamn bullshit for sure," Clay replied.

"I do have some ideas," Loc finally said. "It will be very risky of course, and your superiors will not like it, but it addresses their concerns. I must warn you, though, it can get ugly. More so than you Americans may be accustomed to. But if you decide to follow this path, I and some of my men will be with you the entire way. This was my war before it was yours. I hate the communists with every fiber of my being, and I am still not done making them pay for what they did to my brother and his family or to so many of my closest friends. I will kill every last one of those bastards."

Both Otis and Clay knew of how Loc's brother had been violently murdered by the Communists, but they had seen their share of ugliness too.

"Well, let's hear it," Clay said with an inquisitive look on his face.

"Damn straight," Otis said too, "Let's see what you got. Cause whether the bleeding hearts in Washington like it or not, we're getting our people back."

 _Author's Note: The "Hanoi Hilton" was the nickname for a notorious North Vietnamese prison during the Vietnam War. John McCain was held and tortured here for many years after his plane was shot down._


	3. Loc and Load

_Author's Note: Of course this chapter is not meant to accurately depict the conduct of American military personnel. Keep in mind that these are future SOA members_ _In real life I have a friend named Loc who is of Vietnamese descent. The character is not based on him but I figured this would be a cool chapter name. Also glad that y'all liked the previous chapters. What these guys went through during the war and their dedication and patriotism while being tortured by the enemy is especially important as we later see the reception they receive upon returning home to 1960s California. This is a longer chapter but I wanted to conclude this portion of the story here.  
_

CHAPTER 3: LOC AND LOAD

POW HOLDING AREA, NORTH VIETNAMESE FIELD HQ

"Dammit, Lawson," JT said as he saw his friend and fellow soldiers writhing in pain through his chains and shackles. While JT himself was in excruciating pain from the savage beating at the hands of the commies and already carried scars on his body that would be there for life, he knew what Lawson was going through was even worse. The snake that Truong had poisoned him with contained some of the deadliest venom in all of the world's tropical rainforests, yet was slow acting, and Truong had controlled the bite so that it was just enough to kill Lawson, but at a slow pace. The antidote was just outside the door, available if any of them betrayed their country and their fellow soldiers by revealing their battle plans and base layout to the communist enemy.

"I…I won't talk…..I swear to God," Lawson said, hyperventilating and shaking as the venom began to spread further into his body. They won't let us go anyway. I know they won't. We just all need to hold on while….while our boys get us. To hell with these bastards."

JT wanted to tell some white lies, make his friend feel better. But he knew that Lawson's life would end soon, and he owed him the truth. He simply nodded. "Yes, I know."

"At least…..at least I'm getting it easy…..please….please stay strong, JT. Don't tell them anything. Promise me."

"I promise," JT said sincerely. He knew what was in store for him and why Lawson knew the enemy never intended to release them, not even if they were defeated. It was the open presence of Yevgeniy Gavrilov and how the Soviet Red Army advisor showed no compunction about murdering Steve Tucker in cold blood right before their very eyes. He didn't care that the other Americans clearly knew his name and the fact that he was in the Soviet military despite the Soviet government's official line they were not involved in Southeast Asia. This only meant that Gavrilov and the North Vietnamese never intended for any of them to return to America and reveal this. Thinking of the slow death that awaited him in North Vietnam or the Soviet Union, JT had to agree that Lawson was probably the lucky one.

OFFICERS HOUSING AREA, DA NANG AIR BASE, SOUTH VIETNAM

"Colonel, sir," Private Clay Morrow said, getting out of the Army jeep driven by Otis Cross as it pulled up next to the officers' quarters which resembled some of the nicer trailer parks in Charming, mostly prefabricated doublewides with all of the modern amenities, spacious interiors, and most importantly in Southeast Asia, powerful AC units that the soldiers' barracks lacked. Loc Bui also got out of the jeep, still dressed in his South Vietnamese Army uniform.

Colonel Adkins was just putting the key in the lock in his quarters when he turned the voice and turned around. "Dammit," he muttered to himself then began walking toward the soldiers. "What is it, Morrow? I've already spoken to your friends back there. You know I would like nothing more than to get JT and the rest of them boys back but the order comes from the State Department. They won't allow an operation that risks provoking an international incident with the Soviets."

"We have a way around it," Loc said, "I've spoken with General Nguyen, my battalion commander and he's confirmed it with our leaders in Saigon. I have permission to lead this operation, and to request assistance from the United States as needed. We will take responsibility for whatever happens."

"It will still be a hard sell to the higher ups," Adkins said with a sigh, "The people in the White House an Capitol Hill have tied our hands behind our backs this entire war. They don't intend to stop anytime soon. They'll find a way to fault us, say if the Soviets….."

"We have a way to handle the Soviets," Otis said, "We know how to run this operation so that none of the blame falls back on us and where we can have complete deniability, especially if technically we're simply assisting our allies from South Vietnam. If we fail, you can disavow all knowledge of our actions. This won't require any additional American soldiers especially since Loc here has his own team that knows the area well. If we do get JT and Piney back, the credit will be yours for dispatching us to assist Sergeant Major Bui. Please, sir, allow me to walk you through our plans."

GO NOI ISLAND, SOUTH VIETNAM, SOUTHWEST OF DA NANG

Otis knew that without massive amounts of armor and air support, mounting a direct attack on Hoi An was out of the question. Even if the Pentagon had somehow approved a major push into the town to rescue a handful of Americans, the fierce street fighting that would follow would allow the commies to either execute the prisoners or move them. Otis and Loc had to definitely think outside the box. Otis, Clay, Loc, and their team of twelve men used Zodiacs to cross the Communist lines on the Song Thu Bon River and make landfall on the island of Go Noi, where the enemy had set up several base camps and staging areas so they could invade further into South Vietnam. Instead of wearing their regular uniforms, Loc and the other South Vietnamese soldiers were dressed in the ragged peasant clothing favored by the Vietcong paramilitaries in the south.

Suddenly, a bullhorn sounded and a searchlight moved across the dark expanse of the river, illuminating the approaching zodiacs. Unknown to the enemy, a US Army helicopter was also approaching, flying low enough along the jungle treetops to avoid detection by any radars the commies might have.

"Who is approaching? Identify yourselves!" a harsh voice said through the bullhorn. Otis looked up and saw that the commies had several machine guns trained on them from a large watchtower as well as more armed commies on the shoreline of the island.

"We are loyal cadres of the Paramount Leader, Comrade!" Loc shouted loudly, "We serve under Comrade Commandant Le!" This was one of the notorious leaders of the Vietcong in the Da Nang area.

"This is General Minh," another voice came, and they saw a man in a fancy North Vietnamese Army uniform taking the bullhorn. "Why in blazes did you not report to me you were coming? What business do you have here?"

"We captured these Americans, sir, less than an hour ago! Comrade Le and his commissars wanted them brought here. We are still engaging the Americans inside Da Nang, Comrade General! Communications may be difficult in the battle area!"

There was a pause. "Bring them!" General Minh ordered. "Escort them to the detention facility!"

"Shit, man, that was close," Otis remarked, turning around to look at Clay, who just stared ahead silently. The South Vietnamese made a show of taunting and brandishing their guns at the "prisoners" in order to keep up the charade that they were Vietcong. Five minutes later, they pulled up to a rusty dock with a narrow gate through a barbed wire fence that they were led through.

They were met by a small number of enemy soldiers who began leading them toward the general's quarters near the middle of the base camp.

"We're in range now," a helicopter pilot said from a short distance away, the rumbling of vehicles on the island and the sound of rolling thunder masking the sound of the rotors.

"Hold your fire, repeat hold your fire," Otis said, "We need the strike after we've already engaged the enemy in order to further throw them off balance. We have one shot at getting to the general."

"Roger that."

Otis waited until they were deep into the enemy camp before giving the silent signal. Then in a split second, the Americans took out weapons from underneath their rags while the South Vietnamese soldiers turned their weapons on the commies. Loc quickly gunned down all three commies escorting them from behind while Otis and Clay each killed two enemies with quick bursts to the chest.

"What is going…." They heard a voice shout in Vietnamese. They saw five commies running toward them from the general's headquarters. Otis and Clay both turned in that direction, unleashing heavy machine gun fire that quickly cut down all five commies in a heap.

"Take cover and fan out!" Otis shouted as the commies returned fire from several windows, firing platforms built into the trees as well as the watchtower.

"Come on, this way," Otis whispered to Clay who nodded and followed him between two large tents. A commie stepped in front of them and Clay shot him down with a round through the neck, nearing decapitating him. Loc took cover behind a vehicle as more commies arrived. Soon they were facing off against at least two dozen enemy troops. A group of hostiles approached from a truck parking area lit up by fluorescent lamps, which also illuminated a large gasoline storage tank.

Loc opened fire on the gas tank, and it finally exploded in a fiery blaze after several seconds, sending a large fireball spreading in all directions. Several commies were swallowed up by the explosion as the force several more into the air. Even more were disoriented, allowing Otis and Clay to come out from behind a tent and mow down seven more enemy soldiers. The South Vietnamese soldier next to Loc took a round through the face and fell over dead.

"We got more shooters in the windows!" Loc shouted, opening fire then taking fire behind the vehicle again. The commies' return fire was furious, riddling the vehicle with bullets.

Otis finally radioed the chopper. "Engage all targets now, repeat, engage!"

The US Army helicopter launched at least six missiles into the communist camp. Two of them struck the commies' temporary barracks, killing over thirty enemy soldiers instantly as one fireball after another turned night into day. Another one struck a weapons cache near the perimeter. The resulting explosion shook the entire island and the flames reached up, swallowing up the watchtower and the two commies inside it. Some of the shore batteries began opening up but the crew on board the American helicopter laid down some furious suppressive fire, littering the shoreline with dozens of North Vietnamese dead. After that run, the aircraft turned back to the east. After all, deniability was a priority on this mission, and that wouldn't be possible if it was somehow shot down.

"Let's move!" Otis yelled, motioning for his men to follow him. They quickly approached the general's quarters, where several commies out front were moving around dazed by the explosion. Otis opened fire again with his assault rifle until his clip was empty, then switched to his pistol, shooting down two commies while Clay gunned down another one before he could even aim his weapon at the Americans.

GENERAL'S QUARTERS, GO NOI BASE CAMP

"Loc, I need you and your men to secure the perimeter!" Otis said as they converged on the local government building housing the general's quarters. "Myself and our guys are gonna move in and take the general. Remember, we need the general alive for our entire plan to work."

"Understood," Loc replied, "If its anyone else but the general coming out, we shoot to kill."

"Damn straight. Alright, Clay, guys, let's get those motherfuckers."

The commies were able to regroup and put up some heavy resistance at the building, opening fire from several elevated positions. Three South Vietnamese soldiers were cut down by enemy fire but the Americans quickly opened up on the windows and balconies the commies were firing from. Two commies plunged off a balcony dead. Clay fired a full automatic round into two windows from below. He didn't see his target get hit, but a voice that had been shouting platitudes to Ho Chi Minh turned into a dying scream then fell silent.

Otis and Clay led one team through the front while another American team entered through the rear of the building. Two commies opened fire from the porch as Otis approached the front. Otis took cover behind a coconut tree, several bullets whizzing by. Clay stepped forward and sent the commie falling to the porch with a burst of fire. Another commie opened up but Otis flattened himself on the ground, the commie's bullets hitting the wet grass behind him instead. Otis aimed quickly and blasted the commie all over the front of his body, pieces of flesh flying in all directions as the target collapsed to the floor.

An American soldier was wounded in the shoulder as they burst into the building but they still had the momentum going. The sudden attack along with the helicopter strike had left many of the commies in disarray. Otis and Clay found their target upstairs as the other American team took care of the commies on the lower level. A North Vietnamese sergeant did try to make a run for it, but he made it less than three feet before Loc and his men gunned him down.

They heard shouting and some footsteps coming down the stairs. Otis could tell from the footsteps that it was just one man. He whispered for the others to be quiet. "Maybe this bastard might be able to make things easier for us."

Otis whirled around and sure enough a single commie soldier was rushing down the stairs, not expecting the Americans to already be this far into the building. Otis shot him in both feet, causing him to lose his balance and tumble down the stairs. Clay took out his knife and held it to the commie's throat. At that moment they heard more hostiles coming and shot down another hostile at the top of the stairs.

"Where's the general?" Clay demanded, drawing blood with the knife.

"Second door to the right!" the commie stammered.

Clay nodded. "Thank you. Now this is for being a commie bastard." Clay then jammed the knife so deep into his throat that it came out the other side. For good measure, Clay also stabbed the commie again through the heart, sending his body falling down the stairs. Otis hated the enemy but a part of him was just slightly uncomfortable about what he had witnessed though he knew it was necessary. There had to be no witnesses to the American presence. The commies had brought this upon themselves by casting their lot with the Soviet enemy, waging war against the free world, and capturing American soldiers. Otis and Clay both knew that the lives of JT, Piney, and the other GIs were worth infinitely more than any of the pinkos they had killed here and will kill later.

Not expecting a direct assault on his quarters, General Minh only posted a handful of guards on the upper floor, which was his mistake. Otis took down another commie in the hallway then burst into the general's office where only two more commies stood guard. Clay saw one of them rush in front of the general to protect him and blew his head off while Otis saw the other commie reaching for his weapon and killed him with a bullet through the heart before he could open fire. General Minh reached into his desk for his weapon but Otis fired several shots right next to his hand as well as the wall and ceiling around him.

"As you can see, we don't miss, so you best do as you're fucking told," Otis said.

"You fucking American shit. All of you!" Minh sneered.

Clay took his gun and shot Minh in the inner thigh. "Ahhhhhh!" the communist screamed, clutching his leg as blood seeped through his fingers.

"Next one's in your dick, Comrade," Clay said as Minh stared at him with a face contorted with pain, fear, and pure loathing.

POW HOLDING AREA

It took Lawson over an hour to painfully succumb to the venom, his body twisting in indescribable agony as the toxins paralyzed his lungs and then finally his heart. There wasn't the barest amount of sympathy on the faces of any of the commies, who constantly mocked and ridiculed the dying American in Vietnamese and Russian. Truong returned for the next interrogation session, accompanied by Colonel Gavrilov and two other Soviets. JT felt he was about to break through his handcuffs as he saw the Russian monster who had expressed so much pleasure in killing a defenseless, injured American only a few hours earlier.

"I see Lawson here did not care about his own life. I also see that none of you cared enough to save him," Gavrilov said in his thick, intimidating Russian accent. "Now, we will see just how resistant the rest of you will be when you are not watching, but experiencing the interrogation." He turned to Truong and said in English for the Americans' benefit. "We will start with Corporal Teller." Gavrilov then switched back to Russian. "With their leaders defeated, the rest of these men will crumble. Trust me. I have done this many times in Hungary."

Truong came forward, obviously relishing his words as he spoke. "You are proud, brave American soldiers. What are you so proud of? The people of the united socialist Vietnam do not want you here. Your own people do not want you here!" Troung had a glint in his eye as he walked over to JT with a copy of the _New York Times,_ showing a large newspaper picture of anti-war protestors in Times Square holding up pictures of Ho Chi Minh, Fidel Castro, and Che Guevara while stomping on the American flag. Behind them was a large banner denouncing capitalism and American imperialism. Many of the protestors had signs calling the GIs war criminals, baby killers, and worst of all cowards. The world was indeed upside down. The Pentagon's efforts to limit its bombing campaign against North Vietnam in order to minimize civilian casualties had already cost American lives by extending the war. Yet American soldiers were still "baby killers". The biggest irony is that the same protestors probably celebrated the rapid proliferation of abortion clinics across America. "This is why Lawson died? Will you die for this as well?" Truong continued to taunt the prisoners.

Gavrilov came forward as two commies, one Soviet and the other North Vietnamese grabbed JT from his position and dragged him away from the wall, making sure his hands were still cuffed behind his back. The North Vietnamese soldier brutally kicked JT in the back, sending him first to his knees then face first to the floor while the Soviet simply laughed in sadistic amusement and let out a string of Russian insults.

"Hold him down!" Gavrilov ordered.

" _Da, tovarich!"_ the Soviet said and did as he was told. Gavrilov came over with a cart full of bottles of vodka, imported directly from the Soviet Union. "What is more fun that drinking this, American," Gavrilov said to JT, "Is doing some waterboarding with it, or shall I say, vodka boarding!" His mouth opened into a sadistic laugh and the other Russians and North Vietnamese followed suit. "You will experience what it feels like to drown….in this!"

Gavrilov blindfolded JT and tied a cloth around his nose and mouth. He took a swig of the vodka then held the bottle over JT's face, slowly pouring the vodka down onto the cloth. JT immediately felt his nose and throat burn as it they were on fire. Gavrilov then kicked JT in the chest, sending him flying backwards and sliding along the ground. He ripped the cloth and blindfold off.

"You think that was an entire bottle, American? Let me tell you, Corporal Teller, that was less than a quarter bottle. You will die of the alcohol poisoning when this is over, Teller! You will tell me the information I demand from you, _suka_!" Gavrilov screamed, drunk with both alcohol and revolutionary fervor.

"Go fuck yourself, Ivan," Teller spat. No matter what happened, no matter what the radical leftists and hippies back home thought, America was worth fighting and dying for. It was men like him that gave those traitorous idiots their right to wave enemy flags in the faces of American troops returning home from the battlefield.

Gavrilov tilted JT's head backward and began pouring down more vodka but a few seconds later, Major Truong came over. "Comrade Gavrilov, pardon the interruption but this is critical. Comrade General Minh is on the line from Go Noi, he says the Americans are attacking the island and demands to speak to me immediately. You may want to be present as your advice is always honored."

Gavrilov stopped pouring the vodka and set the bottle down on the table, leaving JT to suffer some more before removing the cloth again. JT retched, spitting out as much of the harsh alcohol as he could. Back home he could hold it down as good as the next man. He chugged Budweisers and took shots of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and Southern Comfort but not to the almost fatal level that Gavrilov wanted to give him. Besides, this off-brand concoction produced in a state-owned Soviet factory with ingredients grown in a collective farm was the most disgusting alcohol he had consumed in his entire life.

"You are right. We must find out what the American aggressors are up to."

Of course all this was said in Russian, but JT knew from the expression on the commies' faces that something was not going right for them. Inwardly he smiled, knowing that victory would be on his side, because if there was any divine justice in the world, America would triumph over these people.

HOI AN FISH MARKET/ GO NOI COMMUNIST BASE CAMP

"This is General Minh. What in blazes took you so long?" Minh demanded loudly, his voice reaching out through the static on the radio. Clay and Loc continued pointing their weapons at Minh while Otis nodded as if saying "you're doing well, keep it up." Minh did his best authoritative tone, knowing his own life depended on how convincing he was in getting Truong and Pham to do whatever these Americans and Southern capitalists demanded.

"I apologize for the delay, Comrade General! We are dealing with capitalist resistance here in Hoi An, we are still clearing the town and hunting down Western spies!"

"You think you are the only ones in battle, Major? The capitalists are attacking us right now here in Go Noi! We believe some of their teams have infiltrated the island and that the Americans may begin a major assault with airborne divisions and marine landing craft. Have the Americans in your custody revealed anything?"

"No, Comrade General. They are showing more resolve but they will not resist forever."

"I want them transferred here to Go Noi immediately!" Minh ordered under duress, putting on his best authoritative voice. Loc listened carefully to the Vietnamese language conversation, nodding to Otis and Clay that it was going well so far. "I need to obtain the Americans' battle plans from them. Hundreds of brave revolutionaries died securing this island from the capitalists, I will not allow an inch of it to fall into American hands!"

"Yes, as you command, Comrade General," Truong said, "What are my orders regarding the general interrogation…."

"They will continue here! We have the means to break them faster. We must learn of the Americans' planned counterattack on this island. We also need them as hostages to deter their pilots from attacking us from the air!"

"Yes, Comrade General! Where would you like us to deliver the Americans?"

Otis pointed to an isolated spot on the map on a small jungle highway in between the holding facility and their current location. Minh nodded and spoke rapidly in Vietnamese, Loc continuing to confirm the translation.

"So, what now?" General Minh demanded after he disconnected the call with Truong. "Are we done here?"

Clay stepped forward with a smirk. "Yeah, we're done." He pulled out his Glock sidearm and put a bullet through Minh's brain, the communist general's body first slumping over onto the table and then tumbling out of the chair into the ground.

"Remember, we don't have a choice here," Clay said to Otis just in case he was still having doubts. "We can't risk any of this getting out cause like Adkins told us, if we screw up, we get the blame, and I'm not about to get a dishonorable discharge not to mention go to prison."

"That was also for my brother," Loc said.

NORTH VIETNAMESE TEMPORARY HQ

JT could see how Piney was still traumatized by almost having to watch the torture session that was thankfully cut short by the emergency radio call from higher ups in the North Vietnamese military. They both wondered what the hell that call was about and prayed it was word that the US was counterattacking. He knew in a kidnapping, the thirst 72 hours were crucial, and this was what it was really, a simple kidnapping and hostage taking. The commies wore uniforms and had ranks, but they were no different than common criminals.

Soon afterward, the metal door to the holding area burst open and a dozen North Vietnamese soldiers filed in, aggressively approaching the American POWs. One of the soldiers kicked Lawson's dead body and laughed. "Ah, we need make sure he dead!" the commie taunted JT in broken English. Pham then followed his men in and spit on Lawson.

"Get this American bastard out of here. Put him with the other capitalist scum!" he ordered.

"Yes, Comrade Sergeant!"

"The rest of you will come with us!" Truong said to the Americans, "You are lucky you are being given some extra time to reflect on your decisions to resist us."

OBJECTIVE HUNTINGTON, WEST OF HOI AN

Dawn had broken by the time the South Vietnamese spotters reported that the transport convoy carrying the American prisoners was approaching Objective Huntington, the name Otis and Clay gave to the stretch of road through the swampland surrounded by steaming jungle where the rescue assault was to take place. This was not the flamingo colored tropical sky that Otis and Clay had seen in Florida. In fact the actual sunrise was blocked by the thick clouds and mist and another torrential downpour was brewing. Everything, even the fog and the rain, about this place had an eerie quality to it. They arrived several hours before the prisoner transport was to reach the location so they can set up surveillance and plant the two remote controlled mines underneath the dirt road. Clay Morrow and two spotters were hidden in the woods to observe the convoy and detonate the explosives at just the right spot while the other Americans and SVA soldiers hid in the deep foliage, the way the commies typically did. In order to bag a deer or a fox, you had to beat it at its own game. Otis figured it was much the same with the commies, since they were never going to play by the rules of war as it applied to civilized nations.

The North Vietnamese convoy arrived only ten minutes behind schedule. Communist efficiency did exist behind the barrel of a gun and the threats of punishment by the superior officers so Truong and Pham moved things along pretty quickly, even delaying their interrogation of Piney for the future. Yevgeniy Gavrilov also rode along with them. There was no way he was going to leave these American prisoners, and he also wanted to see how the offensive was going given that it was critical his revolutionary socialist brothers here didn't love their foothold in South Vietnam. None of them had any way of knowing they would never have a chance to ask JT, Piney, or any of the other Americans any questions again.

"Alright, convoy is in position!" one of the spotters said to Clay.

"Look closely into the lead vehicles. Confirm no friendlies."

The spotter zoomed in further with his binoculars and confirmed that all the Americans were being held in the center truck, and that the other vehicles. "The Russians are here indeed. I see at least three Soviet soldiers in the lead vehicles, fourth one is riding with our men."

Clay pushed the buttons on the two detonators simultaneously. A firestorm engulfed the first two vehicles of the convoy while a giant fireball rose from the back too, reaching almost as high as the treetops. Several trees were blown off their roots and the Americans took cover as the shock wave spread out in all directions. Truong and Pham, who rode in the Soviet-made jeep behind the truck with the American prisoners, slammed on their brakes and dismounted from their vehicle, barking commands in Vietnamese.

JT too was briefly disoriented by the explosion, but not nearly as much as Gavrilov and the other commies. JT suddenly headbutted one of the North Vietnamese soldiers in the chest, slamming him into the tarp, both men tumbling out of the truck into the muddy strip that passed for a shoulder on this isolated roadway. Piney did the same, grabbing one of the dazed commies' guns and pointing it across the truck. Several commie soldiers from the other vehicles began opening up but one by one they were taken out by Otis, Loc, and the other Americans and South Vietnamese firing from concealed positions in the forest. Otis saw a commie take the mounted machine gun on a jeep and turn it in the general direction another team of Americans was firing from. He sent a grenade flying toward the commie, timing it so that there was no way his enemy could escape or toss it back. The grenade exploded in the air, turning the commie into a collection of body parts and damaging the machine gun beyond repair. Otis saw another commie leave a vehicle and gunned him down with a long burst.

Clay and Loc now moved foward, approaching the convoy. The commies were under fire from all sides and were dropping like flies into the mud and grass.

"Get down!" JT shouted for the Americans' benefit then squeezed the trigger, killing two commies. JT swept the commie off his feet and kicked him in the face grabbing his weapon. In the corner of his eye he saw Pham approaching, holding his assault rifle. JT pointed the gun at the commie had had just tackled, blowing him away then focused on Pham.

"You will never stop the Communist Revolution!" screamed Pham as he charged forward with his AK-47 blazing. Then one of JT's rounds hit him in the stomach, following by another round by Clay and even more by Otis and one of the other American soldiers. More than a hundred bullets riddled Pham's body before it hit the ground. At the same time, Truong reloaded and rushed toward Piney.

Piney's eyes narrowed with rage as he was his tormentor coming at him in a blind charge. Truong rushed forward, shooting one bullet after another from his Makarov pistol, letting out a primal scream. One of his bullets grazed Piney on his arm but Piney kept coming firing his own gun in return. Truong knew he was not getting out of this alive, but he wanted to take as many Americans down as he could. Piney's next few bullets struck Truong center mass, sending blood squirting out of his chest as fell down screaming.

Piney turned away to deal with the remaining commies, not knowing that the dying Truong still had some fight left in him. Even as he coughed up blood, Truong cursed Piney and crawled slowly to his gun, preparing to aim at Piney's back as Piney walked away, like a scene out of an old Western movie. After killing a Soviet soldier running toward Clay's position, Piney saw Otis motioning for him to watch out for something behind him. Piney whirled around just as Truong leveled his pistol. Piney discharged a single bullet that flew straight into Truong's brain.

JT now hid behind a large rock by the road and saw the half-drunk and dazed Gavrilov stumbling around. He emerged from behind the rock and violently tackled the Soviet colonel. JT punched Gavrilov in the face and swung him over onto the ground, kneeing him in the chest. The Soviet advisor barely grunted in pain but then JT took the gun and shot him in the hand, then in his right leg so that Gavrilov couldn't move too quickly. He could have easily killed Gavrilov with the shot, but there was no way JT was going to make it that easy for him, not after what he had done to Tucker and Piney and the perverse pleasure he had shown through it all. By now, all of the other commies were dead.

"What is this? What are you doing?!" Gavrilov demanded in a mix of fear and indignation as JT and Piney forced him back onto his feet and shoved him through the woods, his feet getting bogged down in the mud several times. JT shoved him forward and before him lay a large, fetid pond filled with quicksand, an ubiquitous scene in this part of the world. Buzzards and flies filled the surface of the quicksand pond. The next things to come out of his mouth would have been funny if it wasn't so pathetic. "You have no right to do this to me! This is a war crime! I demand to speak to my government!"

JT gave Gavrilov a vengeful smile. "I want you to look at me, you sick son of a bitch," he said. "And its funny you just brought up the Soviet government. You know we have a saying in America, even a broken clock's right twice a day. Your embassy in Hanoi claims there is no Soviet military presence in Da Nang. Most of the time your government's full of shit, but this is one of the times when they're actually right. _Suka!_ "

With that, JT gave Gavrilov a violent push, sending him hurtling forward uncontrollably until he landed with a splash in the quicksand. Gavrilov desperately tried to get up and swim but the downward force of the quicksand was far too powerful. Piney also looked with his lips clenched in hatred and satisfaction as he watched Gavrilov scream in pain as the force of the quicksand crushed his legs and he sank slowly, screaming in unintelligible Russian as his head disappeared below the surface. Clay and Otis checked the flaming wreckage of the North Vietnamese vehicles and saw that all of the other Soviet personnel had been burned beyond recognition. There would be no international incident, the lies from Moscow and Hanoi would continue, and Colonel Adkins would take credit for an operation whose details were classified for security purposes.

JT turned around and embraced Otis first, then Clay. "Thankfully y'all showed up a lot quicker than I expected. I didn't know how much longer we could have made it."

Otis nodded. "You know we got you, brother. Always."

"I know," JT said as relief washed across his face despite the pain and grief. "I'll never forget this."


	4. Purple Hearts and Pink Minds

_Author's Note: One of my "24" stories was written in semi-script format with a soundtrack mentioned which I can't do in this kind of prose writing here. But I'll mention the music in notes as applicable. I think the song that should play in the first part of this chapter as they get honored for their service and fly back to America is "God Bless the USA" by Lee Greenwood. Its supposed to be ironic given the reception that our heroes receive after returning home._

 _And yes, most of the soundtrack will come from later than the 1960s but I'll try to be historically accurate when it comes to music in scenes like where a character listens to a jukebox.  
_

CHAPTER 4: PURPLE HEARTS AND PINK MINDS

" _I want what they want, and every other guy who came over here and spilled his guts and gave everything he had wants! For our country to love us as much as we love it!" – John Rambo in "Rambo First Blood: Part 2" starring Sylvester Stallone_

FEBURARY 1968

LAST DAY OF DEPLOYMENT – DA NANG AIR BASE, SOUTH VIETNAM

"…..his keen decision making, leadership, and courage under the face of enemy fire and insurmountable odds has preserved the lives of six other soldiers of the United States Army with no additional casualties. I hereby award Corporal Otis Cross the Medal of Honor."

Otis Cross stood as attention and saluted the general as his superior officer pinned the medal to his chest. This was the last day in Vietnam for him and JT, while Piney had signed up for another tour of duty.

"Thank you sir," Otis responded respectfully, "It's an honor to serve my country, especially with the team I was blessed enough to be assigned to. They are all my brothers, today and forever."

The American and South Vietnamese soldiers gathered in the outdoor ceremonial ground at Da Nang stood up and applauded for a long time. For his injuries, JT was also awarded the Purple Heart, but they all knew it was Otis Cross who had served with distinction and risked everything to get them back.

JT also made a point to say goodbye to Loc Bui, their South Vietnamese friend and ally who had sacrificed several of his own men to get the GIs back from the communists.

"We're grateful for everything you've done, and America is grateful, Loc," JT said as they prepared to part ways. "There's no way you haven't earned U.S. citizenship for yourself and your surviving family members. I think I speak for every man in my unit when I tell you we will be honored to have you as a fellow American."

Loc shook hands with JT. "I will too, but this is my home, and I will fight for it. Either till my last breath, or until the scourge of socialism is driven from Vietnam forever." Loc touched the Catholic crucifix he wore. "I don't know what church you go to, but please pray for my country, and even for our enemies so they will turn away from evil. And I will pray for the United States. I know your country also needs it very much." No doubt news of the antiwar protestors and the rise in socialist passion in the US itself had made its way across the ocean.

Shortly after, JT climbed up to the rooftop of the headquarters building one last time after already packing up his bags for the flight home. To his surprise, Otis was already there.

"How's it going, man?" JT asked, joining his friend as they took in the view across the base. A large new group of troops had just arrived and was heading toward the barracks. Little did they know what awaited them here in this godforsaken corner of the world. Regardless of American resolve, the Soviet Union had an intractable determination to spread communism and socialism here, so America and South Vietnam had no choice but to carry on.

"Nervous, to be honest with you," Otis replied.

This surprised JT. Otis had never expressed something like this before, certainly not before going into battle or when they first got word that their unit was being deployed to Vietnam. But JT correctly predicted what it was going to be about.

"Just…the thought of being a father, seeing my son for the first time. I….I don't think I'm ready for that. Just raising a kid in this crazy world. And going back to my wife after all that time apart."

JT gave Otis a pat on the shoulder. "You're the best leader in this unit. If you can handle us, you can handle Sunday school and Little League and pool parties and all that. You'll love and respect your family the way you did all of us, and you're going to look after them the way you looked out for all of us. If that ain't enough, I don't know what is."

Otis nodded as he continued to stare out on the runway where four helicopters were lifting up and heading south in an attempt to offer assistance to South Vietnamese forces bogged down in urban combat in Hue. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, JT. I do appreciate that."

JT himself was far from confident about his own future back in Charming. All he had was his father and some of the friends he grew up with and played high school football with. He hadn't even though about where he would work as of the moment, though he figured he would probably get something as Oswald Lumber through some family friends. From there, he just might think about college. Of course he enjoyed working in his father's Cliff's garage and would have liked to inherit the business even though his father had never breached the subject. He did know that his dad probably would not be comfortable handing the family business over to him without any kind of education as to how to run it. And this was just a conversation about being a manager working under Cliff's supervision. Cliff insisted it was a different world now, not like the one he's spent most of his life in. Part of JT had to agree, but thinking about what lay ahead just made him more exhausted than he already was.

ALAMEDA NAVAL AIR STATION, OAKLAND

JT thought of the many weeks it took for his father to come back across the Pacific after World War II on an overcrowded ship from Osaka, Japan to Pearl Harbor to San Diego. Thank to modern air transport, there really wasn't a decompression period anymore, he mused to himself as he and his brothers in picked up their military totes and boarded a Lockheed C-141 military transport aircraft on the Da Nang runway that they marched past every day. He thought of his future in Charming, going back to his father, and what was waiting for him.

While he had a window seat, there really wasn't much of a view taking off from the Da Nang military airfield. He saw the barracks, aircraft hangars, and control tower disappear behind them before the plane took off over the thick jungle on yet another dreary day with the mist seemingly touching the muddy ground. The plane would quickly be over the ocean anyway, but even before they reached the nearby coast, the aircraft entered the thick cloud cover, causing some turbulence that made JT nauseous for a while. A few minutes later, JT saw the sun for the first time in weeks as the plane climbed above the clouds and into the deep blue sky. Somewhere over the South China Sea, JT dozed off and slept for the remainder of the flight except for a couple trips to the lavatory.

Sixteen hours later, JT stared out the window as they descended through the thick fog enveloping the San Francisco peninsula. The fog ended abruptly, however as the transport jet overflew the eastern half of San Francisco Bay, quickly descending to the runways at Alameda Naval Air Station.

"Tough place to come home to, I hear," JT and Clay heard as they walked toward the bus that would take them to Oakland Army Base where they would go through final processing before re-entering civilian life. It was a young soldier from Kansas they had served with. "I'm glad I got to meet the couple of cool guys left in California."

"Thanks for the compliment, brother," JT said, "But trust me. I got this." He knew what the soldier meant. Instead of going back to the Kansas heartland where folks still believed strongly in God, family, and country despite the political and social radicalism spreading across the country, JT, Piney and Clay were heading right into the eye of the storm. California was one of the hotbeds, if not the epicenter of the radical left-wing anti-military and anti-capitalist movement. Charming and the Central Valley might be exceptions, but his hometown was still uncomfortably close.

DOWNTOWN OAKLAND

None of that knowledge prepared JT for the sight that awaited him as the US Army bus, one of those that looked and felt just like a school bus, emerged from the Posey Tube tunnel connecting Alameda Island to the mainland and emerged in the vicinity of downtown Oakland's Jack London Square. The bus slowed down in the tunnel long enough for JT to wonder what the heck was going on, then he saw several Oakland Police cars appear as an escort to take them through the city streets separating the entrance of the tunnel and Oakland Army Base, there they would go for their final processing before re-entering civilian life. Weeks ago, he and his men were in the jungle hunting down and killing well-trained and seasoned enemies, yet here they were being protected by mere cops, most of whom had probably never fired a gun while on duty.

Suddenly, JT heard several popping noises and muted explosions and swirls of thick smoke. His military instincts about to take over, he then realized that a large group of antiwar demonstrators had attempted to block roadway leading out of the tunnel and the police in full riot gear had responded by firing tear gas canisters. JT had wondered whether the newspaper clipping Major Truong had shown him during his torture session was doctored. Coming into central Oakland made it clear to JT and the rest that it wasn't the work of the North Vietnamese government, that this really was the America they were coming back to. The Central Valley was an exception, along with Orange County and San Diego. If anything, Charming was out of place in California because of its rural, blue collar nature and the Midwestern and Southern roots of many of its residents. In order to get back to Charming, however, they had to go through the purgatory that was the San Francisco Bay Area.

More protestors began pelting the bus with rocks, bottles, shoes, upended street signs, stolen trash cans, and even a park bench - any makeshift weapon they could find. Then, JT suddenly felt an uncontrollable sense of panic as he saw Jack London Square and the sidewalks of Embarcadero West lined with more protestors, several of them waving North Vietnamese, Soviet, and Communist Chinese flags. Piney felt a wave of panic rushing through him as the image of the enemy flags brought back recent memories of their tormentors in Hoi An.

"This can't be serious," a soldier said as he stared out the window as the hostile crowd of students and activists.

"Ho Chi Minh is the Paramount Leader! American soldiers are paramount cowards! The global revolution will triumph!" read a sign held by an older hippie who had the looks of a radical college professor. A young Black Panther wearing a Malcolm X t-shirt and a Muslim turban screamed into a bullhorn as the crowd cheered. "Free Vietnam! End American capitalist oppression and imperialism!" There were more signs denouncing the "military-industrial complex" and supporting the Communists, including one held by a young female college student reading "There is no God, but if you must pray, do it for the people of Vietnam, not for GI war criminals." One of her friends, who wore a shirt with a portrait of Che Guevara, held a joint of marijuana for her as she smoked it.

The Black Panther spotted Otis in the window and began focusing his tirade on him. "Hey look at you boy!" he screamed in a mocking voice as several of his fellow black radicals and other protestors jeered. "What you doing there, brother?" the Black Panther continued shouting in a particularly ghetto manner. "You their house nigger, ain't you? Fighting the racist rich white man's war?" For a lot of these protestors, antiwar sentiments were mixed with the leftist narrative of class warfare and racial struggle.

"Fuck you, Uncle Tom!" a female Black Panther screamed at Otis, sticking out her middle finger at him, a look of pure disgust on her face. "Too bad you didn't die over there!" Learning to keep his cool in the face of racist insults was something Otis had learned early on in his 1950s childhood, so he was able to remain more composed than many others on the bus, but he was nonetheless shocked at the vitriol of these Panthers. This was the kind of violence and hatred that Martin Luther King had avoided but Malcolm X and many left-wing radicals embraced.

Clay nudged JT alarmingly as he saw a hippie with long dreadlocks and a hammer and sickle hoodie ignite a Molotov cocktail and approach the bus. The cops also saw the threat, however, and quickly moved in with their guns and batons drawn, provoking further violence from the crowd as they moved toward the officers. The activist threw the Molotov cocktail as the bus driver slammed on the gas pedal, the vehicle lurching forward, forcing several demonstrators to jump out of the way. Clay angrily grabbed one of the hippies who had mobbed the bus and slammed his face against the window, smearing it with blood. More protestors surged forward despite the tear gas and rubber bullets sent their way by the police. Clay punched another protestor in the face before JT and Otis pulled him and closed the window, both to prevent the tear gas from entering the bus and to prevent a further confrontation.

"These motherfuckers, they have the freedom to talk trash about us because of what we did over there!" Clay yelled angrily, slamming his fist into the back of the seat in front of him. "But dammit it is I'm going to let them throw things in my face and celebrate the deaths of our guys while they wave the enemy's flag in our face!"

"I know that, brother, but think about what the news is going to say. You know they're going to blow this out of proportion and blame the whole thing on us," Otis said.

JT remained silent. He knew that Otis had been desensitized to things like this given the racist hostility he had received much of his life in past two decades before the Civil Rights movements had gotten off the ground. But he himself also found it hard to remain calm as he looked at the people outside, his own fellow Americans whom he was willing to sacrifice his life for, mocking his service, praising the enemy, and even expressing their glee over American casualties.

OAKLAND ARMY BASE

Thankfully, things quieted down significantly as they finished passing through downtown Oakland and entered a industrial area by the waterfront. Here, a few civilians gave the soldiers on the bus some dirty looks but there was none of the violence they had just seen with the hippies and college radicals minutes before. The police escort ended at the entrance to Oakland Army Base, a major processing facility and staging area for American troops shipping off to war and those returning home.

Hours later, they were back in civilian clothes with their Army uniforms in duffel bags as they approached the area where their families and friends were waiting. JT looked up and noticed how eerily similar the security arrangement here were with Da Nang. Snipers and gunners in watchtowers had their sights trained on the area outside the base, since Oakland Army Base wasn't on a protected island like Alameda was and they were constantly on the lookout for saboteurs trying to infiltrate.

The families from Charming and Lodi were gathered together, as they had all kept in touch locally to support one another as their fathers, sons, and brothers went to the other side of the world to answer freedom's call. JT immediately glanced his father Cliff talking with Otis's wife Tameesha, a young slim black woman in her early 20s carrying a small baby. JT was still shaken as he walked toward his family, the sights of the Vietnamese torture chamber and the violent street protest still fresh. He definitely wished had had the 3 week journey across the Pacific that his father had following his service in World War II to prepare for this moment.

"JT!" his father exclaimed, coming forward to embrace him. JT forced as much confidence into himself as he could, as he had heard the stories of how his father and the other members of his unit returned in a homecoming parade after their victory against Japan. In contrast, these troops returning from Vietnam were even told to change into civilian clothes before leaving base for their own safety, at the hands of certain segments of the American population.

JT hugged Cliff Teller for several long seconds, and it seemed like his father was able to read his mind. Cliff unzipped his son's duffel bag and removed the Purple Heart from his uniform.

"I heard about this, son," Cliff said, "I know what you did to earn it. I'm damn proud of you. This ain't right," he said, motioning toward the perimeter of the base even though no demonstrators were visible from here. He probably did know about the police escort through the Oakland streets though. "I feel like I'm on a different friggin planet right now. You should be able to wear this proudly."

"It's a different world these days, dad. I guess we all just have to live with that," JT said with a shrug. When he first enlisted, the country wasn't so crazy. Well, Charming was probably still good ol' Charming even now, but even during their training in San Diego, civilians would thank them for their service to America and wish them the best of luck in their battle against the communists. What a difference a few years makes. He only prayed that time really has continued to stand still in Charming. Otis, on the other hand, was just overjoyed to see his newborn son and had a tearful reunion with his wife. Minutes later, they went on their separate ways, promising to keep in touch.

"I'm allowed to sit at the lunch counter at Harvey's now, right?" he said, hinting at a future visit to Charming as well as the recent desegregation that had happened across the nation.

JT nodded. "Yes, and if anyone says otherwise, they'll have to answer to me."

SAN FRANCISCO-OAKLAND BAY BRIDGE

Instead of heading east on Interstate 80 toward the Central Valley and Charming, however, Cliff drove his 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air onto the westbound on-ramp, quickly merging onto the highway viaduct that eventually took them to the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. JT wanted to head back to Charming as soon as possible and spend a couple days at home finally unwinding from the war and thinking about his job prospects, but his father insisted on this detour to visit his cousin Larry whom he was not on good terms with. One major reason happened to be Larry's opposition to the war and a string of insulting anti-military letters he had mailed to JT in Vietnam.

Larry wasn't always like this, but he became caught up in political activism a brainwashed after heading off to college. He had since graduated and settled in the North Beach neighborhood of San Francisco, a mecca for counterculture people like himself where the drug culture was rampant, marijuana smoke permeated the air, and people regularly burned their draft cards in public. JT had no interest in them having lunch with Larry, but both Cliff and his uncle had insisted that family was still family, and they were not going to let the war change that.

FISHERMAN'S WHARF, SAN FRANCISCO

By the time they crossed the bay, the fog over San Francisco had dissipated and it was warm enough for this outdoor café with a nice view of Alcatraz Island and the Golden Gate Bridge to be packed with patrons. The dirty looks continued, right here by smug liberal yuppies in business suits and designer skirts. JT hated these people even more than the raggedly hippies and anarchists they had seen on the other side of the bay. He knew deep down they were miserable people, wracked by the kind of middle class American guilt instilled in them by liberal college professors or by the national media which covered the war with a pronounced sympathy toward the communists.

Larry did not greet JT and Cliff as he entered the waterfront café with his father, JT's Uncle Chuck. JT immediately saw that Larry was still the same arrogant, self-righteous prick that fit in so well with this crowd.

"Hello? Is someone going to come take my order?" Larry barked rudely at the nearest waitress, "In case you haven't noticed, we're sitting here!"

"I apologize, sir. Someone will be right with you," the waitress replied as politely as she could and disappeared into the cafe. Yep, same old Larry, JT thought. He was thoroughly embarrassed going out in public with his cousin, precisely because of moments like this. Despite serving his country honorably for two years, the last one being shot at in the jungles of Vietnam, JT never felt he was better than anyone and this time he had to make it known to Larry.

"It's alright, man. I'm sure they're doing their best. I'm still taking a look at the menu anyway." At this moment another waitress came and told them about the featured wines from nearby Sonoma. Larry interrupted her before she was finished and ordered an expensive French wine.

"No, JT, no," Larry said as Chuck also nodded. It was clear that Cliff was also embarrassed by their relations right now and maybe even regretting having this outing. "You see, JT," Larry continued, "Well, I'm surprised you don't get it, given you follow orders so well, even to the point of killing Vietnamese people who are just fighting to free their country."

JT immediately felt his blood start to boil. First the protestors, now this. He felt the anger rise up and prayed that he wouldn't snap. "We're NOT going there, Larry..." he began.

Larry scoffed. "Anyway, about this girl. I pay her salary. She's here to serve me. She's not my friend, we're not 'family' like it is in those hick diners in Charming. And you know why? Because I'm smarter than her. Because I went to college and got a fucking education. I know what you're thinking, she's probably got a kid at home blah blah blah. Well maybe she should have been smart and gotten an abortion."

"Hey!" a female voice suddenly yelled harshly from the sidewalk outside the dining area. JT looked up to see a rather attractive woman in her 20s with her blond hair covered by a bandana and wearing a sun dress with dozens of colors. "Yeah, I'm talking to you! Can that haircut be any more obvious?" the woman said louder this time, "How many children did you kill over there, soldier?"

"Excuse me?" JT said in shock, getting us just as three college-aged young men pushed through the crowd to join her. One of them wore a preppy polo shirt while the two others wore clothes identifying themselves as students from UC Berkeley, one a sports jersey and the other a sweatshirt.

"Forget it, son!" Cliff said to him. "All their uppity clothes and attitude, they're still trash. They don't know a thing about this country. They ain't raised right. They ain't worth it, son!"

By this time, though. JT had had enough. "I watched dozens of my men die in that fucking jungle fighting for this country. My friend was tortured to death with snake venom for over an hour because he loved this country, just so these bastards can celebrate his death."

"Are you deaf, boy?" the sun dress girl said, "Some grenades explode too close to your ear or something?" She laughed.

"You have no idea what we did over there or the shit we went through!" JT said, gritting his teeth.

"What, you're going to attack me the way you raped those Vietnamese women you racist imperialist fuck? Trust me I'm a lot more well-read than those hicks out in the boonies who still glory war and aggression." With that, she spat violently at him from point blank range, her saliva striking him right between the eyes.

She followed up with an obscene gesture, mocking him. "I guess here you can't do a thing, can you soldier boy? That's what I thought. And you wouldn't dare, you ignorant redneck. My dad's a doctor in Palo Alto and he plays golf with half the judges here! What does your old man here do, plow cornfields for a living? You people are only so tough when you're killing indigineous freedom fighters with those guns from the military-industrial complex."

Before she could continue, the male student in the Berkeley jersey went up to JT from behind, lifting a mid-sized bucket over his head and quickly pouring out its contents. JT immediately realized that it was nothing but an entire gallon of urine that the student activist had dumped on him.

"Stop the war now! Justice in Vietnam!" the student yelled loudly, shaking his fists in the air as he climbed on top of a chair. The girl and the two other students quickly joined in. As JT recovered from the sudden shock he saw that many of the other patrons in the café and passerby on the waterfront plaza were clapping, cheering on the students, and jeering and laughing at both JT and his father.

"We don't want your kind here in our city!" shouted a man running a food stand. "Fuck you, baby killer!"

Larry just stood there in shock as if caught between his cousin and his ideological allies, while the student in the polo shirt flashed JT an arrogant, taunting grin then also spit on the ground in front of him. At this moment, Larry simply left the table and scurried away, not wanting to be associated with the soldier these people were insulting. That was when JT lost it and charged forward at the student, angrily overturning his chair with his hands.

"Calm down, yo!" the polo shirt guy said, mockingly putting his hands in the air. "I know you're probably all unhinged from the war and all but…."

Before he could finish the sentence, JT's right fist slammed into his nose, sending blood flying in all directions. JT followed through with a side kick that sent him flying over a railing and into the street, causing several cars to screech to a halt, narrowing missing him. One of the drivers got out of his car and looked at the student in shock. By now, half of his fancy shirt was red with blood.

"You goddamn motherfucker…." JT heard as the young man in the Berkeley jersey came at him as well followed by the one in the sweatshirt. Clearly this student had come from a privileged background and wasn't used to anyone ever standing up to him. At this point the radical female student was screaming hysterically and crying for someone to call the police.

JT's training immediately came front and center into his mind as he realized these men truly wished him physical harm. Hours after landing on American soil, he was at war again. The sweatshirt guy attacked him with a front kick, but he stepped aside and kicked him behind the knee, shattering his leg. The student collapsed in a heap on the ground but JT wasn't done with him yet. He angrily grabbed him by the neck and threw him over a table, knocking it over and sending food and drinks flying through the air, dousing the nearby patrons and waitstaff with beverages, lettuce and sauce. JT then picked him up and bodyslammed him onto the concrete ground.

JT saw the polo shirt guy struggle to get up and spit some blood onto the pavement and was upon him in a rage. The student came at JT, swinging wildly. JT responded with a back kick that struck him in the chest, then a roundhouse kick the impacted the young man's skull, sending him flying backward into the front bumper of a taxi. JT grabbed the man by his collar and headbutted him in the nose again, then spit in his face in return.

"It's you who's the fucking coward!" JT screamed in his face. The jeers of the crowd around them had been replaced with silence by this point. "And you're an idiot. You want to pick a fight with a soldier in the US Army. Well I'm proud of this country, and I'll always be proud of this country, and of this uniform. That's something I don't think you'll ever get through that useless brain of yours!"

JT kneed the student in the chest then punched him again, slamming his head back against the bumper. He then repeated that with another punch.

"John! Stop!" his father was screaming now. "You're killing him! Remember, these cockroaches are not worth…."

JT left the polo shirt man in a broken, bloody heap but now saw the third student in the Berkeley jersey trying to slip away in the crowd. JT jumped back over the fence into the plaza and gave chase. The jersey student saw JT coming after him and began shoving through the crowd, picking up speed but JT quickly closed the distance between them. The crowd, for all their earlier toughness, parted as JT pursued his prey.

JT tackled the student and the two of them went flying through the windows of a microbrewery, landing in a shower of broken glass as the customers and bartenders fled the scene in shock. The student kicked JT in the chest, momentarily stunning him then grabbed a broken beer bottle in an attempt to stab JT.

"Goddamn GI redneck," the student growled in hatred as he tightened his grip on the makeshift weapon. He would bring it down on this soldier's neck. He would do it for his beaten and bloodied friends on the street outside, and he would do it for the revolutionary heroes of Vietnam who were dying as a result of American neo-colonialism.

JT blocked the Berkeley student's arm before his attacker could draw blood with the broken bottle. He then easily grabbed the student's wrist and slammed his hand into the bar, shattering his knuckles and forcing him to drop the beer bottle. The student refused to give up despite the pain and grabbed a bar stool in an attempt to strike JT in the head. JT dodged the attack and kicked the student in the groin, causing him to squeal in pain. JT then picked him up and threw him like a ragdoll across the bar, the student's body shattering a dozen wine bottles before falling down behind the bar unconscious.

"John! JT!" Cliff was screaming now but JT was not hearing anything. He was back in the jungle, remembering Lawson, Tucker and everyone else he had lost in that battle and during his captivity. He now set his sights on the food vendor who had insulted him, even as the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.

"Shit," the vendor said to him as JT came. "Look, man, I'm not with those guys. What the fuck, man?"

" You got something you have the guts to say to my face?" JT demanded.

The vendor simply blabbered some nonsense about peace and social justice and what have you.

"Let me tell you something, cause if you don't have the guts to go over there and fight for your own freedom like we're doing for you, you can at least respect the American flag. Because if you don't, you can get the fuck out of this country and find your own paradise somewhere else."

With that, JT violently shoved the vendor backwards into the waters of the harbor with a splash. JT then pushed the food cart toward the water's edge as well.

"What the fuck is wrong with you man? You fucking crazy!" the vendor stammered as saw the imminent destruction of his cart. "Calm down man, Jesus Christ!" JT sent the cart into the water with a splash right next to its horrified owner. It bobbled on the surface for a little while before sinking to the bottom.

"Freeze! Now! Hands up!" several voices shouted. JT turned around and saw at least seven police officers making their way across the plaza toward him with their service weapons drawn. "Hands up where we can see them!" More police cars were pulling up to Fisherman's Wharf, along with several ambulances. JT glanced to the side and saw a group of paramedics at the street corner where the polo shirt guy was and more officers going into the shattered bar.

JT breathed out slowly, finally forcing himself to calm down despite the continued anger he felt as the stench of urine that covered him. These bastards had it coming. Right now, he hated them even more than the commies who had tortured him and his men back in Hoi An village.


	5. Heckler's Verdict

_Author's Note: In regards to the racism and language depicted in this story, as Chibs says on the show it was a different world back then. Personally I am nostalgic about the good ol' days from before I was born, but there are some things I'm definitely not nostalgic about._

 _According to the SOA wikia, "Otto Moran" is one of the founding members of the club along with Lenny the Pimp so there's no mistake, he's a different character than Otto Delaney._

CHAPTER 5: HECKLER'S VERDICT

JUNE 1968

SAN FRANCISCO COUNTY COURTHOUSE

It was now the final day of JT's trial stemming from the events at Fisherman's Wharf four months ago. JT was charged with attempted murder and aggravated assault. Because of public pressure, the San Francisco state's attorney refused to grant JT a change in venue despite the difficulty in finding an impartial jury and the massive media attention it had received in the city newspapers. The prosecution had also argued against holding a trial in a more rural area, claiming that would result in a jury biased in favor of JT due to the support for the military still prevalent in some other parts of the state. Above all, the state's attorney wanted to satisfy the local public which demanded blood. The jury consisted of six men and six women, mostly middle aged which probably helped JT's case, though there were definitely a few hipster and yuppie types there too.

The trial lasted four long days packed with the tearful testimonies of witnesses, many of them friends of the students and the food vendor JT had his altercation with. One after another, they presented JT as a complete psychotic monster who went berserk against a bunch of innocent students passionate for change while the prosecutor tried to blame JT's actions on his violent military mentality and harshly maligned the Army culture in an attempt to appeal to any biases the jury might have had. It visibly worked with the yuppies and hipsters who nodded passionately and glared at JT in contempt. The gallery was also filled with students wearing their UC Berkeley colors to support their own. The judge, in an attempt to show impartiality, did order several students escorted out of the courtroom by security when they refused to remove their Communist symbols. JT's attorney, a veteran himself, did give an impassioned closing argument, detailing the brutal battle JT's company fought on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the atrocities committed by North Vietnam against civilian populations, the torture he had endured at the hands of the communists and his love of country, contrasted with the hostile and outright threatening and violent welcome he had received upon his arrival here in the Bay Area. Now was the moment of the truth, JT and his family knew as the judge stepped forward to the bench.

"All rise!" the bailiff said and most of the people in the courtroom did, except for a number of the victims' friends in the antiwar movement who refused to leave their seats. One of them spat on the ground while others snickered disrespectfully and rolled their eyes.

The judge took his seat in the front of the court and banged his gravel several times. "This court will come to order! Order in the court!" Even he seemed annoyed by the constant ruckus coming from the protestors family and friends up in the gallery. The day before, as the closing arguments were made, protestors clashed with police on the plaza in front of the building and made threats with a bullhorn, threatening to burn down the courthouse and everything around it if there was no conviction. A violent brawl had ensued as the antiwar crowd attacked JT's family and friends in the room.

"He better be rotting in jail!" a young punk with green hair stood up and shouted. "Remember our promise! We said we'll burn this shit down and we fucking mean it!" With no delay, more than five cops rushed and tackled him. The punk managed to knock out one cop with a punch to the face before the other officers brought him down with their nightsticks, beating the resistance out of him as he tried to fight back, causing a greater uproar from his supporters in the gallery.

"This morning, we will hopefully see the conclusion of _The State of California vs. John Teller._ " He turned to the jury foreman. "Have you reached a verdict?"

"Yes we have, Your Honor," the foreman replied simply, glancing over at JT with a sympathetic look, but also nervously at the crowd of students, hipsters, and punks gathered in the spectator section of the courtroom and the line of police officers stationed around them.

"On the charge of disturbing the peace, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of first degree assault, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of attempted murder, we find the defendant not guilty."

JT slowly opened his eyes again. He had been spared the worst, but he was still going to see prison time, for something he didn't deserve. Yet even that wasn't enough for some people.

"What the fuck?" a leftwing student screamed, "This is bullshit! He tried to kill my friends! That deranged cocksucker!"

The judge slammed his gavel again. "I will have you removed from this courtroom and hold you in contempt!"

"I'm in contempt of this country! Change is coming whether you people like it or not!" the female student screamed. Before the police moved in toward her, however, she shoved her way through the crowd and stomped her way to the exits.

The judge waited a few moments for the commotion to quiet down. "Will the defendant please rise?"

JT stood up, his knees wobbly as he awaited his fate. No doubt the jury's decision had been affected by the fears of violence that would result if he was not convicted of something.

"John Teller, I hereby sentence you to 18 months in prison including time served." He slammed the gavel one last time, "All rise! This court is adjourned."

AUGUST 1968

STOCKTON STATE PRISON – CAFETERIA

"I'll be damned! John Teller, right?" one of the many heavily tattooed prisoners said to JT as he grabbed today's prison dinner, a meatloaf that tasted like it was cooked three days ago and some poor excuse for a macaroni salad that was only a few steps up from his middle school cafeteria. "We went to school together, remember? Otto Moran, and this here's Lenny Janowitz. Of course we weren't one of the cool jock boys like you, but in here, we're all a much of Charming hicks. Gotta stick together you know."

The man and one of his friends stood up and cleared a place for JT at one of the many metal tables in prison's cafeteria. "Hey, my homeboy is going to eat with us today," he said to a scrawny inmate who was halfway through his meal. The other inmate looked up.

"In other words, we need this table so get your fucking ass out of here!" Lenny, who was shorter but stockier than Otto, made a quick move toward the other inmate. The scrawny man smartly decided to do as he was told, even if he couldn't help cursing under his breath. "You see, JT?" Lenny said, "Here you either get respect, or you're somebody's bitch, like that pathetic boy just now. He'll last a few more weeks if he's lucky. That's what happens when you don't got nobody sticking up for you."

"I know who both of you are," JT said with a smirk, and he didn't think very highly of them. He recognized their faces from their time at Charming High School though they were seniors when JT was a freshman. He didn't know about Lenny, but he knew for a fact that Otto Moran had been drafted but refused to go. At first JT thought that was the reason Otto was here until Otto himself volunteered the info about his crimes and those of Lenny. Otto, Lenny, and their group of friends were seen as losers and troublemakers by the more respectable families in Charming. Above all, they were known for prowling the town streets and the rural backroads around Charming in their souped up motorcycles, dirt bikes, and four wheelers at all hours of the day and night. Even as the son of a mechanic and garage owner, JT at the time didn't look highly upon this crowd at all. He came from a good family that abided by the law, attended mass every Sunday and quite a few Wednesdays, and operated their own business. He joined the military to defend his country like previous generations of Tellers had done. Of course JT loved to ride his own motorcycle and was quite good at it, but he was never the biker gang type that these two and their crew seemed to be aspiring to be. Yet now he was in here, sharing a lunch table with Otto and Lenny, something he never would have done at the Charming High School cafeteria.

"You're a pathetic stoner and draft dodging coward," JT said to Otto, "You think you're a tough man cause you can steal cars and go on a high speed chase with the cops for ten miles? You can win in a prison fight, hell maybe you can even go toe to toe with those gangsters from Compton. But guess what, I watched men close to me, much better men than you die right in front of me so you have the freedom to be a nobody and fuck up your own life! You make me sick. If you think I can't handle myself, let me mention that I personally killed at least fifteen commie bastards over there and I'm damn proud of that. I can take care of myself just fine, thank you both very much."

"I'll show you who's tough, Teller," Lenny glared, "Except I just want you to know, we can still build this bridge before you burn it. A few weeks, a few months in here, you'll see. Being from Charming means more than you probably understand right now. For now, enjoy your dinner."

SEPTEMBER 1968

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY

"You know what?" Professor of Sociology and chair of the American Studies department Walt Rogers shouted loudly as he paced quickly back and forth across the front of the lecture hall in UC Berkeley's ornate, neo-classical Wheeler Hall, one of the most prominent buildings on campus. "I am passionate like this because I need to be!" He then paused and looked at his audience of over 100 freshmen and sophomore students. "You know, I was reading through one of those anonymous course evaluations from last semester though I'm sure it was that inbred hillbilly from Chattanooga, Tennessee whom I hopefully enlightened, who said I reminded him of a Southern Baptist preacher." Several students, particularly in the section of the room where most of the out of state kids from the Northeast sat chuckled at the reference in their typical snobbish fashion.

Well guess what? I…. _we_ have to be that way because our enemies are that way! That preacher and his backwoods congregation pushing their fairy tales on the rest of us, the greedy banks and the corporate robber barons that trap their workers in modern day slavery in the name of their obscene profits…" His voice then rose to a shout so loud that the wooden doors to the hallways and the podium all shook with his rage, "And the corrupt military-industrial complex and the genocidal American soldiers raping and pillaging the brave, defenseless people of Vietnam…they are all equally passionate except unlike me, unlike us, they want to protect the status quo that benefits them at the expense of real people!"

Shouts of "hell yeah" and "damn straight" sounded from across the room. The majority of these students came from middle class and upper class backgrounds, but through Professor Rogers was able to channel the pent up anger that welled up inside them. Yet it was professors like Rogers who made them angry, who told them that they had to be angry, that they had to feel guilty about the emptiness of their comfortable upbringings while there was so much war, poverty and inequality in the world.

"College is a time for new experiences, for you to question everything that you have been taught! In this class, you will learn about this country through the lives and experiences of the voiceless and subjugated, " he said passionately as he walked over to the American flag hanging in the front of the room. "I've sure you've been taught before, especially those from East Tennessee, or Bakersfield for that matter, to pledge allegiance to this flag, that we are 'one nation under God', whatever the hell that means." Rogers snatched the flag in his hand. "You know what this country's so-called greatness is based on? It's based on the rape and plunder of the Third World by our banks and corporations and our military which does their bidding. That is what the American Dream is based on!" Professor Rogers continued his rant in front of the captivated audience. "And when people of the developing world seek out global justice, like the Vietnamese freedom fighters are doing, our government sends our CIA agents and those psychotic soldiers and pilots and Marines on a mission of terror and genocide! It is not enough to be angry. We must act on this anger!" Rogers then stuffed the American flag into the trash can. "I am taking this symbol of colonialism and oppression, and putting it where it belongs!" he shouted as the students' cheering reached fever pitch. "And if you don't feel that way, or be open minded enough to consider feeling that way 4 months from now, you can get out of my classroom and drop this class while you can without an F on your transcript!"

Rogers went back to the dais and pulled out a copy of the recently published book _Rules For Radicals_ by the left-wing, nationally known community organizer Saul Alinsky which was required reading for this class. "One of the things that Saul Alinsky mentions in this book is that when we provoke violence from our enemies, that turns the public against them, for it reveals our enemies for who they are. Some of your classmates has already done this!" Rogers motioned for a student to stand, and it was one of the men who had attacked JT at the San Francisco waterfront.

The class clapped passionately for the student, who was still visibly scarred and bruised from his encounter with JT. "And after that day, people saw exactly what these Army soldiers are like. And it was the public pressure that forced that jury, a jury that is not like us, to do what we wanted them to do! I look around this room, and I hope there are more brave heroes like this young man who have the courage to stand up against this system!"

JANUARY 1969

AMERICAN STUDIES DEPARTMENT OFFICES, UC BERKELEY

The students filtered out of Wheeler Hall across the grassy expanse of Memorial Glade as Rogers watched from the large windows of his office. Also with him are three of the students from his class whom he had already taught in a different sociology course. His connections with them ran well before that, however, as he had picked them out and they had spent much time together away from campus. Rogers and the students gathered here in his office were the leader and core operatives of the Northern California chapter of the Weather Underground, a far left terrorist organization. The Weather Underground supported all left-wing causes, but they were most passionate about ending America's participation in the Vietnam War.

"That was quite a lecture, I'm sure it'll make all their other classes seem boring," said junior philosophy major James Winston Nelms in a pronounced Massachusetts accent. The son of a prominent Boston physician and prep school math teacher, his upbringing in a liberal Northeastern bubble had saturated him with upper middle class, white Western guilt well before he set foot in what was arguably America's most radical college town. He and other Weathermen had already committed violent acts, him operating under the nom de guerre "Comrade Jimmy".

Next to him was his girlfriend Deanna Lunsik, an engineering student from Sunnyvale originally following in the footsteps of her father who worked nearby at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. That was before she became politically radicalized in the Berkeley scene. It was hard for her to name an exact moment that made her devote her life to activism, but if she had to choose one, it would be when Jimmy brought her to hear Saul Alinsky speak in person. Through her new friends at Berkeley, Deanna became disillusioned with the comfortable life she knew and was disgusted with the work that her father did supporting the US government and its crimes around the world. She instead decided to dedicate the science and engineering brilliance she inherited to fight for what she saw as more just causes so that America and the world would be a better place.

The third student, a double major in psychology and political science, was named Antonio Garcia according to his university records. In reality, he was an illegal Mexican alien with dozens of names and identifications. Antonio was smuggled across the border as a child and through perseverance and hiding his illegality managed to escape the graffitied barrios of Oakland and get admitted to Berkeley on a scholarship program for inner city youth. His story should be an example of the American Dream, but his illegal status and his upbringing in the inner city created a bitterness that never left him. What galvanized him into violent extremism was his brother's deportation back to Mexico after being taken in for questioning by LAPD officers investigating the killing of a white business owner by Hispanic robbery suspects. A week after his brother's deportation, Antonio received word that he had committed suicide.

The gang wars claimed lives in Oakland almost every day and the cops turned a blind eye, but when one rich white man got killed, they swarmed the Mexican barrio looking to bring the killers to justice. Why was he illegal, Antonio had thought. How dare the gringos call him that and say his family didn't have to right to live here, when this was his people's land before the United States stole it from Mexico? At Berkeley, Antonio quickly became part of the activist scene. He found the desire for violent action as he met Professor Rogers and these other students. Yes, they were gringos, but they were not part of the establishment that oppressed his people. And in them, he found his comrades in arms.

"The plans that we've discussed, they're coming along nicely?" Rogers inquired.

All three of the student activists nodded.

"I've done my reconnaissance of the potential targets we discussed," Deanna said. "I'll go through each and every one in detail, including security and police presence and the kind of resistance we'll encounter, and possible escape routes as time permits." She has spent many a summer with relatives in the northern Central Valley so was intricately familiar with the area. Her most recent 2 month stay outside Charming not only allowed her to conduct reconnaissance on possible targets the Weathermen could hit, but further entrenched her hatred of the place. Charming and the other small towns around it represented everything that was wrong with America especially after she started seeing it through her newly enlightened activist lenses. It was Deanna, the somewhat hometown girl, that suggested that the Weather Underground attack a target in the Central Valley for maximum effect.

Rogers nodded. "That will wait for another day, but I'm glad things are progressing well on your end." He turned to the illegal student. "And you, Antonio? _Tus amigos de las calles –_ your friends on the street – you've spoken with them?" Rogers prided himself in speaking fluent Spanish which allowed him to fancy himself as being down in the barrios fighting for the downtrodden.

" _Si, patron,"_ Antonio replied passionately. " _Estamos_ _listos para guerra_." We are ready for war.

"The things that we have discussed, your connections are able to provide all of them for us?"

" _Si,_ of course, _patron._ As long as everyone gets paid, we get all the materials we need. And all of us are ready to act now."

VISITATION ROOM, STOCKTON PRISON

Stockton State Prison greatly limited JT's opportunity for visits, partly because of the court's recommendations that he be treated as a dangerous, violent criminal and partly because of the overcrowded conditions. The California prison system was well over capacity, but with the increase in drug trafficking and gang activity things were not getting better anytime soon. JT noted that very few individuals here in Stockton prison were here for their participation in violent protests like the one he saw in Oakland or for the violent physical attacks on military veterans and their families all over the Bay Area. Most of those simply got a slap on the wrist by judges afraid of fanning the flames or whom even personally sympathized with them, and those who somehow did get locked up were always put in minimum security prisons or even house arrest in their parents' homes. The last time he had a visitor was his father four months ago. Now it was Otis Cross on the other side of the heavy glass picking up the telephone receiver.

Within their time limited to 10 minutes, they obviously needed to catch up as much as they could. JT couldn't help but notice a bald white man, probably one of the racist skinheads in the prison, giving him a death stare from a few positions down. The skinhead obviously disapproved of JT receiving a black visitor. They quickly talked about everything that had happened since returning home from the war. Clay and Piney had decided not to reenlist and to return after their tour of duty was up. The good thing was that they were out of harms way since they've been transferred to support positions in Thailand.

"So how's school treating you, man?" JT asked.

Otis had taken advantage of the GI Bill and was now attending the University of the Pacific's Stockton campus where he was majoring in economics and finance.

"To be honest with you, pretty tough, man, but I'm hanging in there. Maybe it's all a blessing in disguise. But hey, just don't sound right bitching about my own life when you're the one locked up for bullshit reasons. And everyone with half a brain knows all this is bullshit."

JT looked up. "It is what it is. At least you're ahead in the game, making plans for your future. So what's this blessing in disguise?"

"Like I was saying, well, University of the Pacific is nothing like Berkeley with all that insanity but it's not exactly an easy place for me. Just like anywhere else in the Valley, you know, the more progressive half hates me cause I'm a genocidal baby killer like you, the other half still hates me cause I'm a nigger. I'm stuck in the middle, nobody wants anything to do with me. So the major class project we had this semester, we had to come up with a business plan and present it. I had to do it all by myself, and my professor was impressed enough with my work to recommend me for an internship with the Armed Services Credit Union branch in Lodi. I'll be starting next month."

"I'm proud of you, Otis," JT said sincerely, "Look, I grew up in the Charming area. I'm not saying its perfect and I'm sure you know that better than me, but at least people will give you a chance. When you first go into that bank, people might have stereotypes and misconceptions of you, but that will change once you show them who you are and what you're capable of."

At that moment one of the prison guards banged on the window. "Time's up Teller, wrap up your shit with that spook right now!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, brother," Otis said, "I'll see you on the other side."

PRISON GYM

Even without the warnings from the rest of the Charming folks, JT knew his days of relative peace at Stockton prison would eventually run out, though not in the way he expected. It happened less than a week after his meeting with Otis as he was doing his regular workout on the aging weight room equipment in the prison's large but dilapidated gym.

"Hey soldier boy!" a voice called, "Or maybe nigger lover's more like it?"

JT angrily slammed down his weights and looked up to see five men that he identified as members of the Aryan Brotherhood, a major neo-Nazi group with a particularly heavy presence in prisons, though he knew they had plenty of friends outside in the Charming area too. The ringleader, a skinhead thug named Welch, was in prison for kidnapping and terrorizing an interracial couple and suspected in an arson attack on a Chinese restaurant. He noticed that one of them was the bald man who had been staring at him during his visitation with Otis, though now he was able to see the large swastika tattoo on the side of his neck.

"I don't want trouble right here, alright?" JT said evenly, trying to remain as calm as he could. Above all, he was just exhausted and counting away the days before he could go home. Any kind of trouble here in prison would definitely not help his case. "We need to just stay out of each other's way like we have so far."

Welch glared at JT. "Then maybe you shouldn't have offended me, boy."

"What the hell is this?"

"Jesse here saw what happened, didn't you, Jesse?" Welch said, nodding toward the skinhead from the visitation room.

"Damn right," replied Jesse, "Only the second time somebody visit you, and you already got a porch monkey. That kind of stuff offends us, as it should any self respecting white man in America."

"Only thing worse than a nigger is a traitor like you, Teller," Welch said. JT did everything he could to hold his anger while standing straight and not letting these racist thugs intimidate him, but he knew it would not end peacefully when Welch motioned to the guards and they sealed off the doors to the gym, leaving JT, the Aryans and a bunch of other inmates trapped inside.

"Feeling brave, Welch?" JT said, clenching his fists. "Can't even confront me in a fair fight. Guess you got the guards on your payroll, or they believe the same crap y'all do?"

Jesse laughed. "Or maybe they just want some good entertainment, and trust me, we deliver."

Jesse and two of the other Aryans charged at JT, but JT ducked just as Jesse swung at him, his punch going wide. JT sent his foot crashing into Jesse's stomach, the force lifting Jesse a little higher into the air before he collapsed face first to the floor. JT followed through by headbutting another one of the Aryans onto one of the benches. The Aryan struggled fiercely, but JT grabbed one of the heavy weights and dropped it onto his attacker's hand, smashing it and causing the man to shriek uncontrollably in pain. JT then knocked him out with a punch to the face. However another one of the Aryans delivered a punch straight into JT's jaw, filling his mouth with blood and knocking him back against one of the metal machines. Another Aryan kicked him in the back as Welch watched and Jesse began recovering from the blow.

One of the Aryans grabbed JT's neck as the others began to beat him. "You like those niggers, don't you, Teller?" one of them taunted as he tightened his grip on JT's neck. "Well now we're going to show you what it's like to be one of them!"

Suddenly, however, the Aryan giving JT the chokehold yelped in shock and pain and his eyes went in a daze before he collapsed to the ground. JT looked up and saw that Otto Moran had knocked the Aryan out cold with a chop to the back of the neck, and Lenny was coming too.

Having expected to just observe JT's beating as entertainment, both Jesse and Welch were visibly shocked at their goons being dispatched not just by JT but by the other two inmates from Charming. Lenny headbutted Jesse, sending him into a weight machine then bashed his head into the metal. Welch grunted as he grappled with Otto but JT recovered and came back with a chop to his neck, causing him to collapse and choke. Otto then gave him a brutal kick in the stomach and groin, Welch whimpering in pain. JT grabbed him by the collar of his prison jumpsuit and elbowed him hard, shattering Welch's nose and sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Suddenly an alarm sounded and the guards rushed in to restore order. "Show's over!" one of the officers shouted, "Get back in your routines now!" The medical staff quickly entered to take the more seriously injured Aryans to the infirmary.

JT looked at Otto and Lenny. "Thanks for having my back," he said simply.

"Charming boys, remember?" Lenny said.

"Yeah."

"You know, JT," Otto said, "I didn't choose to stay home because I hated you or the other soldiers. I never burned my draft card, I just let it sit in my house. All it was….was that I didn't feel its worth what they made you all go through. Like….we're right here, its not like the commies are going to be rolling through Charming tomorrow. If that did happen, you bet my guns would be ready. I swear that to God. I just didn't think it was worth Americans like us dying over there to save South Vietnam from the commies."

JT looked him straight in the eye. "Whether you believe it or not, whether you admit it or not, the enemy's here. And every newscast about additional American casualties only makes them more confident."

"I know that now, JT, and I respect what you did over there. I figured you should know that."

MARCH 1969

PROFESSOR ROGERS'S RESIDENCE, BERKELEY

Professor Rogers was wary not to be seen with Jimmy, Deanna, or Antonio in public so he could maintain the illusion that it was just a faculty-student relationship for his own protection in case the authorities ever started investigating the local Weather Underground chapter, even though he in fact was the leader of it. Saul Alinsky, though, was a nationally known scholar, activist, and community organizer so Rogers had absolutely no qualms about entertaining him in his bungalow located in a leafy neighborhood less than fifteen minutes from campus. In fact, the fact that Saul Alinsky himself would personally visit him at home only elevated Rogers's stature among both at the university and the Berkeley community at large.

After reminiscing about old times together over several glasses of wine on the back porch, the two men finally retired to Rogers's living room which was decorated in an interesting mix of yuppie chic and counterculture themes. Rogers mentioned the rave response that Alinsky's _Rules For Radicals_ had gotten from both the faculty and students at UC Berkeley and several other colleges where Rogers was an adjunct professor.

"Seriously, Saul, I don't know what I should do," Rogers said at last, finally getting to the most important matter he wanted to discuss with his mentor. He spoke of the Weathermen he led and the passion and energy these students had, then specifics about the tentative plans they have made together, including Antonio's connections on the Oakland streets that would come in handy.

Alinsky paused for a long time, looking at Rogers with a mix of sadness and envy. "You….if I believed in God, I'd say you're very blessed with the students and the resources you have here. So many dream of being where you are, and you're questioning yourself? Come on, this is not the usual Walt Rogers I know."

"It's….everything will be different if we go through with this."

Alinsky sighed and took a long swig of his exotic wine. "Let me tell you something, Walt. People all over the country, myself included, dream of being in the position you're in to bring about change. In fact its been a disappointing week for me, very disappointing." Alinsky walked over to the counter and opened up another bottle of wine, this one freshly imported from Portugal.

"So disappointing that even a glass of wine as fine as this cannot remove the cloud that's hung over me. There's a very promising young woman I've been in contact with for a number of years. Name's Hillary Rodham, very strong student leader at Wellesley College until she graduated recently. She even did her senior thesis on my activism and my principles. Called me and corresponded with me by mail a number of times and of course I proofread her thesis paper for her. All the right ideas. And yet when I offered her a job within my movement, she declined, said she decided to go to law school. I tried to talk her out of it, but her mind was set. She has the right mindset no doubt, but she's living under the illusion that she could change the system from within. What can I do about it, you know?"

Rogers scoffed. "Changing the system from within? I'd say she's about forty years ahead of her time at this stage."

"Yes, even someone as motivated and as ideologically pure as this young woman from Wellesley," said Alinsky as he finally put down his wine glass. "Didn't have the guts to carry through. What you have here, what your operatives are willing to do under your command, is rare. We have protestors. You have an armed insurgency. You have the power to change the world, to make a real difference, Walt. Many people wait a lifetime for the opportunity you have right in front of you."

"Trust me I know that, Saul," Rogers replied, "But once I cross thar line, there's no going back."

Alinsky smiled. "You won't want to go back, Walt."

 _Note: Saul Alinsky is a real historical figure and is used fictitiously here. The history between him and Hillary Clinton is true including the fact that her college thesis was written on his activism which she highly respected. More of this is detailed in the film "America" by Dinesh D'Souza, one of the best documentary films I've seen. The Weather Underground was also a real organization and its leader Bill Ayers was an influential figure in Barack Obama's life though the actions of the organization are exaggerated in this story and all of its members here are fictional and not based on real figures either alive or dead to the best of my knowledge. I believe this story shows what the Weather Underground would be like had all of their plans been successful. I chose to feature Saul Alinsky in this story instead of Ayers because Alinsky is dead and cannot be libeled._

 _The prison scenes are not necessarily realistic especially how the guards act but they were just inspired by the real show._


	6. Our Name Says It All

CHAPTER 6: OUR NAME SAYS IT ALL

" _No, I don't regret setting bombs. I just regret that we didn't do enough." – Bill Ayers, leader of the Weather Underground terrorist organization, active 1969-1977_

MARCH 1970

STOCKTON STATE PRISON

"I'll see you on the other side," JT told Lenny Janowitz and Otto Moran as he reached through the bars of their prison cell. This was the day JT had been waiting for the past 18 months. 18 more months of his life that had been taken from him, he thought as the anger welled up inside him again. He was supposed to have gone home to Charming 18 months ago. It was now over 3 years since he had seen his hometown. No doubt his high school girlfriend had moved on. She hadn't even written or called him since the day he started serving his jail sentence.

His two usual morning guards roughly opened the door loudly. "You smiling at me, soldier boy?" the first guard taunted him. JT had been expressionless, and he would not let these people goad him into doing something rash. That's what had gotten him here in the first place.

"No, I'm not," JT replied calmly.

"Oh, you getting released today, is that right?" the other guard said with a nasty smirk. "You know you want to stay in here, boy. After all, what you going to, go back home you might find most of your buddies in the bottom of some swamp in Vietnam being chewed up by piranhas or whatever the hell swims in that muck over there." JT knew it was him just trying to make him snap. The fact that the show with the Aryans didn't turn out as planned displeased the guards greatly.

"Get your fucking shit together, this might be your lucky day after all," the other guard said impatiently, realizing their plan wouldn't work this time either.

"To be honest I didn't expect you to survive, Teller," the prison guard said darkly as he opened the door to the release processing area of the state penitentiary. "Guess you Charming boys a bunch of proud tough white trash. Just to be clear though, boy, you ever find yourself in here again you won't be so lucky."

"I don't intend to come back here again," JT said.

The guard laughed at him. "Nobody ever intends that, soldier boy, but that don't mean we don't see them again."

Clay and Piney were both waiting on the other side along with Cliff as JT finally changed out of his jumpsuit and was escorted down a long hallway and out into the visitors parking lot where inmates were released. JT gave his father a long embrace before getting in the passenger seat, leaving Stockton State Prison behind them. Piney and Clay rode along in their Harley motorcycles as escorts as JT left the prison compound in his father's car.

"I'll make a couple calls, see who needs help around here," Cliff told his son, "I can also give you a couple days at the garage until you got something figured out."

"You sure that's good for business? I know Charming's not San Francisco, but I'm sure there's still some people who hate soldiers, especially those of us who fought in Nam."

"Yes, those kinds of idiots exist everywhere, but you're my son, we are a military family, and if they don't like that, I'll flat out tell them to move the hell to the USSR if they have a problem with this country."

"There's still plenty of other people in this area who've kept their sanity and I'll make some calls. Will probably talk to Oswald today or tomorrow, they always need help at the sawmill at the very least, maybe some of his other things. It's not like the Bay Area where people will throw you out the moment they find out you were in the service. I'll have to be honest though, your criminal record is going to raise some eyebrows. We'll just have to see how it goes."

CHARMING, CALIFORNIA

Less than a half hour later, they were making their way through the small canyons and narrow valleys that abutted Charming, which was located in a geographically unique portion of the otherwise flat San Joaquin Valley. Whenever JT would travel long distances, it was coming back on this road that really made him feel at home. He had spent countless hours on dirt bikes and regular Harleys along the ridges and valleys here.

Of course there were some people who hated growing up in Charming. The narrow canyons made them feel trapped, and the open expanse of the valley on the other side of town made them feel isolated from everything else. It was really quite the opposite for JT. The small valleys - people back east would probably call them hollers - with the wind whistling through at night amid the chirping of the blue jays made him feel safe and protected, and going 85 mph across the soybean fields and citrus groves under the open skies gave him a sense of freedom you just couldn't find on an urban freeway. It was a year and a half later than JT had expected, but as expected nothing's really changed that much in Charming, and that was part of the appeal. In fact, some old timers liked to joke that when the world ended, they'd want be in Charming because it's twenty years behind the times.

The canyon soon opened up and JT finally saw the old large wooden welcome sign with the motto "Our Name Says It All" plus "Population 7875" as they entered the Charming city limits. The road continued to pass through some sparse woods and fertile farmland before widening to four lanes as it entered the town center. Charming was indeed a beautiful place, with a commercial downtown of about twenty blocks of low-rise buildings, the only thing taller than five stories being the large water tower emblazoned with the town motto as well as the Charming High School mascot. Downtown was anchored by a Main Street with cobblestone sidewalks and American flags and ribbons on the classic streetlights and trees that lined it. JT watched as the car then entered the residential Buckhead neighborhood, a traditional community of mid-sized single story detached homes fronted by small lawns and white picket fences, the kind of place where there was a sense of community yet still afforded quiet and privacy to its mostly lower middle class residents. He was finally home.

OFF CAMPUS STUDENT HOUSING, BERKELEY

The attack was planned on a day that Jimmy Nelms had no classes, so nobody would notice him missing. Around 10:30 AM he drove to the Victorian style house on Josephine Street where Deanna Lunsik lived along with three other UC Berkeley students, all of whom were on campus at the moment. Deanna paid more in rent than the other tenants, which allowed her to have exclusive use of and access to the garage which was kept under lock and key at all times. Deanna, who did not work on campus aside from an unpaid engineering research position, found it amusing that her father's income working for the government was helping to pay for part of their base of operations. Since in addition to holding her Volkswagen Beetle car, this garage also served as the explosives workshop Deanna and other Weather Underground bombmakers used to construct the devices they would use in their attacks.

Jimmy opened up his glove compartment and ran his fingers through an autographed copy of _Rules For Radicals_ by Saul Alinsky. Jimmy remembered his elation upon hearing from Professor Rogers that Alinsky had personally approved the task they were about to perform. Jimmy then looked at the newspaper clipping from a week ago that he had saved. Saul Alinsky was in the news again for proposing a radical march in Chicago and the _San Francisco Chronicle_ published a special edition extolling his contributions to political activism which Jimmy decided to save forever. His eyes focused on the picture of Saul Alinsky leading a march of angry protestors right here in Berkeley. While Alinsky certainly knew how to get down and dirty, it was up to people like Comrade Jimmy to go to a place Alinsky himself couldn't and take their dark dreams to a higher level.

Jimmy embraced Deanna as he entered the garage, giving her a long, passionate kiss. Their passion for socialism was exceeded only by the passion they felt for one another. Their relationship was often more wild than romantic, but both felt a level of eroticism about what they were about to do on this day. Both had caused extensive property damage in their previous attacks, and had even killed and dismembered pets belonging to veterans and military families in an attempt to intimidate them, but neither had actually killed a person before, and they were proud to hopefully be crossing that line today to prove their devotion to their fierce political beliefs. Other people kill over drugs and relationship issues and stolen goods. They were killing for a higher purpose. They had a calling.

"Got it working without a hitch, I assume?" Jimmy asked, running his hands sensually down Deanna's back as he looked at the sophisticated bomb sitting on the workbench.

She kissed him again. "Without a hitch, honey. It will be even better than the model we tested." Weeks ago, they had detonated a cache of her homemade explosives in rural Marin County, at the family estate of another Weather Underground terrorist. And that bomb wasn't the full force because anything more would have attracted attention from the neighbors. Deanna's blue eyes sparkled as she carried the open metal case containing the bomb and handed it to Jimmy, who placed it in his trunk.

"You're a gift to us, and to me, Deanna," he said, holding her hands. "I don't know where we'd be without you. This is a remarkable work of art. With this, you'll force our enemies to take us seriously. This country will only wake up from its ignorance when the terror its brought to Vietnam is seen in our own communities, especially those that support the war."

"It's nothing without your courage, Comrade Jimmy," she replied with a smile, purposely using his nom de guerre. "I understand why Rogers doesn't want me to go with you, but be careful out there. Make me proud, Jimmy, make all of us proud."

CROSS RESIDENCE, LODI

"Lord, thank you for this day, thank you for this food that you've provided us. We pray that it nourishes our bodies. We also thank you for the blessings that you've bestowed upon this family. Thank you for the success you've given me at my job and I pray that you continue to strengthen me and provide me with the wisdom and guidance I need to succeed. We thank you, Lord, once again for the promotion that Tameesha recently received at Harvey's and for allowing me to excel thus far with my classes this semester. I also pray for my brothers in arms still over there on the battlefield. May you protect them and grant them victory against their enemies. We know that in the end Lord, you are in control of all things, and may your will be done. We pray these things in the name of your son Jesus Christ, Amen."

"Amen," Tameesha repeated. No matter how much in a hurry they were, Otis and Tameesha never failed to say their morning prayers over breakfast, because they knew it was God alone that had carried them this far in their lives, including bringing Otis home from the front lines of the Tet Offensive and allowing him to not just avoid a court martial but be awarded the Medal of Honor for leading the operation that rescued JT and Piney. Tameesha had just been promoted from hostess to server at Harvey's Family Restaurant and things were continuing to look up for Otis both at college and at his new paid internship.

"You ready for tomorrow exam?" Tameesha asked her husband as he took a sip of his coffee.

Otis took one last glance on his lecture notes. "Nope," he said, then laughed, "But then nobody's ever ready for those exams. We all survive, somehow."

"You know I have all the faith in the world for you," she said, "I can't believe you got all these financial ratios and all to memorize. I'm having a hard enough time memorizing the menu at Harvey's, especially with all the new things they're adding on to it."

"Guess that's what happens when you order the same thing every time you go in!" Otis replied laughing. "You got a point, though. I've been there at least fifty times, tried something new almost every time, and still haven't experienced the entire menu yet. If you need some practice, I'll quiz you tonight, make it more fun. I'll pretend to be the most demanding customer you've ever met."

"That would certainly be helpful," she said, getting up from the table. "Time for both of us to not be late."

Otis made Tameesha a kiss as they stood together in their kitchen. "I love you, baby."

He then gave Taddarius a kiss in his crib too before heading out the door into another sunny spring day.

CRESTWOOD AREA, CHARMING

Crestwood, six miles east of downtown Charming, was so named for its setting in some low forested hills. While some newer lake-style homes were popping up for newer residents, including some willing to make the commute to Stockton and Lodi, much of the area still remained a mix of trailer parks and rural homes on large pieces of acreage. The fact that many of these properties were still on well water was the reason JT and Piney Winston were here.

Finding work as a retired veteran was difficult enough for Piney as well, even though he didn't have the criminal record JT now did. By now, Piney had resorted to placing advertisements on windows and bulletin boards around town for odd jobs, especially those involving motor repair. He certainly didn't hesitate for a second to let JT work with him when his childhood friend finally got released from Stockton. This particular job involved repairing a broken diesel generator that pumped well water on property owned by a carpenter named Bruce Detty whom Piney had known for years. To JT and Piney, motors were motors and they were skilled enough mechanics to handle this as well as they could a vehicle.

The Detty home that the well was adjacent to was actually a trailer set at the edge of the woods, but long-time Charming residents knew that stereotypes about this kind of housing arrangement were often false. Their clients for this job lived in a doublewide with three bedrooms, two bathrooms connected to the well water supply, a large living room and a kitchen and laundry area with brand-new electric appliances. It was more comfortable than many urban apartments and even comparable to many of Charming's older single family homes.

The day went well until around 11:30 AM when they were taking a quick break from the work after Bruce's wife Tina, who had just returned from her morning errands in town, offered them some iced tea and they took a few minutes siting on the lawn chairs next to the trailer, facing the peaceful forested hills. It was soon afterward that they overheard the commotion.

"You could have found anyone else to fix that!" Tina Detty was saying loudly. "We got this entire phone book right here. Even if someone else charged more I wouldn't have cared!"

"Calm down, honey, please!" Bruce was pleading loudly with his wife.

"Calm down? Are you listening to yourself? For Chrissake you let those two into the house when our kids are still here in their rooms?"

"I've known Piney Winston's family for years, and JT…."

"Have you not been paying any attention to the news?" Tina Detty shot back, "How can you be sure they're the same guys you knew before, that the war hasn't done something to them? Almost every week on the news, Peter Jennings talks about some soldier somewhere returning home all messed up in the head and committing all sorts of unspeakable crimes!"

Bruce was coming to the veterans' defense. "They're a bunch of bleeding heart cowards who should be in Moscow working for Pravda! Peter Jennings isn't even American! Ten years ago, his show wouldn't even pass for news, it would be comedy!"

Piney opened the door and stepped into the kitchen, placing their empty glasses on the counter. "Thank you for your hospitality, ma'am," he said, looking Tina in the eye. "We won't impose on your any longer." He stepped back outside where JT was waiting. "C'mon, man, let's go."

Bruce Detty shook his head, rushing past his wife and all but jumping down the steps from his trailer.

"Fellas, I'm sorry about that," he said, opening his wallet and taking out some cash. "You know I wasn't expecting that. She….she's been so caught up on that bullshit in the media, believes every friggin thing those liberal hacks on TV feed the public.!"

"It's not your fault, sir," JT said calmly. So much for this job.

"Look, here's for what's y'all done already," Bruce said, holding out a handful of ten dollar bills.

"It's alright, we ain't taking nothing before the job's done.

MORADA CREEK, CHARMING

Jimmy and Antonio's first destination was located to the north of Charming, not far from where the State Highway 99 bypass met back up with the business route serving the center of town. Antonio looked especially alert as Jimmy made a turn off the two-lane highway, cutting across a field where a herd of cattle grazed in the tall grass. Antonio definitely felt out of his element out here in the country.

"I can't believe this is less than an hour from Berkeley," Antonio commented as he winced at the smell of cow manure. The smell of hay and freshly cut grass was new to him too. "This is what I imagine Kansas would be like."

"Just keep calm, don't draw attention to yourself," Jimmy said as he brought his lighter up to the Cuban cigar he smoked to feel closer to Che Guevara. "As far as anyone else is concerned, you're my undocumented worker who doesn't know how to speak English. Plenty of those around here cause these rednecks are too lazy to work their own fields despite their boastful claims of self-sufficiency." Here it was Jimmy trying to play it safe. He was afraid Antonio might not be able to get his nervousness under control and slip if he engaged in conversation with anyone here, so best to not have him speak any English at all.

"Understood, _ese_ ," Antonio said as he exhaled on his cigarette. "We almost there?"

"Yep, five minutes. Other guys are still right behind us for backup if necessary, but I got this handled." Antonio double checked all the guns in their glove box as Jimmy turned left at a sign reading "Jefferson Ranch" following a long dirt road to the farmhouse, barn, and shed sat amid a clump of cypress trees in the middle of the open ranchland. Jimmy found out about the Jefferson brothers through a classified ad about selling a large Dodge Maxivan which would be the perfect for the attack. That plus the location close to their intended target was why the Weathermen settled on this place. During their brainstorming session, Antonio had suggested getting his friends from Oakland to simply steal a vehicle for them, but Professor Rogers pointed out that there were too many variables. The vehicle could not be reported missing before the mission, and operational security dictated that the fewer people outside the organization knew their plans, the better. Antonio had to agree with Rogers that if his friends were caught, they would easily cooperate with the authorities to avoid deportation given that most of them were illegal like him.

Jimmy and Antonio walked briskly up the stone path leading to the ranch's main house.

"Ah, so you must be Jimmy," a man said, opening the door before Jimmy walked up the front steps. He was dressed in overalls with suspenders. Typical country fashion, Jimmy thought. He glanced at Antonio and back at Jimmy.

"This is Antonio. He works for me on my property, he's going to drive my car back."

The seller nodded. "Well my brother should be ready in the garage now."

Jimmy also greeted the younger Jefferson brother and made a show of inspecting the paint job on the van, even though he only really needed the engine to run for the twenty or so minutes it took to drive to their target from here. He couldn't let these sellers suspect anything until he was able to surprise them. Finally, Jimmy opened the hood and started the engine, acting satisfied.

"Looks good," he said to the brothers then turned around to Antonio. " _Estamos listos. Trae la plata!_ "

 _"Si, jefe,"_ Antonio replied and came with a suitcase of money for the car. The Jefferson brothers took a quick look through the money and concluded the sale, handing Jimmy the keys to the Maxivan.

"Well, nice doing business with you. Let us know if y'all need anything else," the first seller said.

"Will do. Thank you, sir," Jimmy said with the fake polite smile that he had practiced throughout his entire upper class New England upbringing.

"I'll see you back at the farm, Antonio," Jimmy said in Spanish as he tossed his own set of keys to his fellow Weatherman.

Jimmy then pulled out a gun and discharged three shots into the first man's back the moment he turned around. Even he was surprised at how quick his trigger finger had become. The training that Professor Rogers had arranged had certainly paid off. Jimmy's victim gasped, struggled for breath for a few seconds then fell face first to the ground with a thump. The younger brother stepped back in shock.

"Jesus Christ!" he cursed and removed his gun from his holster to aim at the Weathermen, but Antonio quickly shot him through the head, the man's falling back against the wall then down onto the floor in a pool of blood.

"Okay, let's move quickly!" Jimmy ordered, motioning for another terrorist to take his personal vehicle and help move the bomb to the Jeep as more Weathermen terrorists watched the perimeter.

ARMED FORCES CREDIT UNION, LODI

Otis made sure his clothes were in order as he parked his motorcycle in his usual spot behind the Armed Forces Credit Union, a single story building spanning an entire small block in Lodi's commercial downtown. He took off his motorcycle jacket and checked his tie one last time in the reflection of his car. He didn't think he would ever get used to this and thanked God that Tameesha was always there to tie it for him. Otis quickly strode down the street to the credit union, arriving a punctual 10 minutes before his scheduled time. While he didn't mind school, he preferred this much more, being able to apply the things he learned in a real world setting, even if this was only supposed to be a stepping stone to a larger financial institution. At the same time, Otis felt it was a blessing for him to still help out his fellow soldiers and veterans and their families. As he took a look down the street, Otis noticed that none of the three unwashed hippies who often took turns standing across the street holding misspelled protest signs had shown up today despite the comfortable sunny weather. Maybe the Lodi police finally received enough complaints from the nearby business owners to find a way to keep them away from that well-trafficked street corner, or perhaps they had been caught with drugs and arrested.

The Armed Forces Credit Union served as a bank for current and retired service members from all branches of the military. While many World War II and Korean War vets came here, the business volume was especially high now because of the guys like him returning from Vietnam, and because of the military spouses and other family members who used the Western Union telegram and money transfer services since this location offered discounted services to Southeast Asia.

"Good morning, Otis!" the branch manager greeted him, walking over.

Otis nodded respectfully. "Good morning, sir."

"You have a moment, Otis?"

"Yes, sir, of course," Otis replied, unlocking the drawer to his desk and taking out a stack of investment documents relevant to his morning appointments, including an older veteran interested in refinancing his vacation home.

"First, I'd like to really thank you for staying late last Thursday. I really thought flu season was over, never expected so many people to call out. Glad you were able to handle some of the other clients."

"I just do what I can, sir."

"My friends on the college faculty were definitely right to recommend your for this job," the branch manager told Otis, "The feedback from your regular clients has also been positive. I'm impressed by the growth in their investment portfolios despite all the instability going on in our country these days. Starting next week, your wages will be increased by $1.50 an hour."

Otis smiled gratefully at his boss. "Thank you sir. I promise I won't let you down."

Otis didn't mention that that would simply make him equal to the starting wage for a new white employee. Yet coming in here he knew it was already a big jump. Obviously it wasn't right, but there was nothing better he could do about it. His father, who grew up on a sharecroppers' farm in the Deep South, had always taught Otis that in order to make it in America, he had to work even harder and perform even better than a white man. Otis had taken these words to heart. He just hoped and prayed that things would be different by the time Taddarius entered the workforce.

HARVEY'S RESTAURANT, CHARMING TRUCK STOP

In addition to being a favorite pit stop for truckers driving down State Route 99, Harvey's Family Restaurant was also popular with local residents, and it was JT's favorite place growing up. The fact that Tameesha Cross now worked here gave him and Piney even more reason to grab lunch there after their unpleasant experience with Tina Detty. Loretta Lynn's brand new hit "Coal Miner's Daughter" was playing from the jukebox as they entered the diner and took their seats on the light blue stools by the Formica counter.

"Well Tameesha, we're obviously requesting you as our server," JT said as he looked at some of the new bright neon lights that had been installed overhead.

"And how are you fine fellas doing?" she replied, coming over with two large glasses of freshly brewed Southern-style sweet tea.

"Just glad to be out," JT answered, deciding not to mention what had just transpired at the Detty home. "How's Taddarius? I still need to go meet him!"

"Of course! You need to stop by, maybe tonight or this weekend! He's one now, and thank God my momma's able to take care of him while Otis and I are busy with work and school. We were just thinking that you should be his godfather."

An older white man sitting a few seats down turned his head around and glanced over for a while, but wisely decided to mind his own business. It was 1970 now, not 1955.

"You know, I would be honored," JT replied. "Y'all are far ahead of me when it comes to life. You're married, got a wonderful son. I come back here, single, no kids, girlfriend's moved on as I had expected."

"Don't you worry about that, JT," Tameesha told them as she handed them the menus, JT marveling at all the items that weren't there the last time he ate here. "Only God knows what's in store for you. Often when you're not looking is when the right person shows up in your life. The Lord has a plan for all of us, don't you worry about that, JT."

ARMED FORCES CREDIT UNION, LODI

Jimmy made sure his face was mostly covered with a handkerchief and his baseball cap as he got out of the Dodge Maxivan and walked two doors down to a donut shop where the crowd had thinned after the end of the lunch hour. He looked down and coughed, heading toward the rear where the bathroom was located. Rogers had decided against a direct extraction from the street in front of the credit union since an unknown man abandoning a car at that location would probably arouse suspicion so he posed as a customer who couldn't find any street parking closer to the donut shop. After entering the bathroom and flushing the toilet for good measure, he left but instead continued toward the back into the alleyway and followed it until he came to a different street, where a Weather Underground terrorist was waiting.

"C'mon, let's move," the other young radical said, dressed in a In N Out Burger uniform left over from his high school job to also deflect attention. The driver handed Jimmy his watch as he got in the passenger seat and the car pulled out into the early afternoon traffic.

The timing was perfect. Jimmy beamed and gave the victory sign to the driver as they both heard and felt the explosion, then heard the screaming of bystanders as the vehicle erupted in a giant fireball that tore into the military building.

The terrorist driver slapped Jimmy on the back. "We did it, man! That was beautiful! There's no way those motherfuckers ever saw this coming!"

"We'll celebrate later," said Jimmy in response, "Let's stay focused on the road and get the fuck out of here before the cops set up a perimeter."

Otis Cross looked up at the older gentleman he was meeting with as he laid out several more documents on the table. "Of course, given your situation as well as your credit history, you definitely qualify for a number of additional payment options for the mortgage….."

At that moment, the entire window and wall behind Otis disintegrated and turned into a wall of flame and debris that quickly washed over him, his client, and almost everyone and everything else in the building. The only survivors were those in the break room located in the back of the credit union, and even that area was devastated. The force of the explosion collapsed the roof, causing a beam to come down and completely sever a young woman's leg while three other employees were trapped underneath the rubble. Of those, two would be dead by the time the first responders made it through the rubble, and the other would die in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

HARVEY'S RESTAURANT

"Oh my God, this can't be happening!" JT and Piney suddenly heard the other waitress cry out in fear. "I….."

Tameesha took a look at the TV screen that the waitress and the other diner patrons were looking at and turned up the volume. At first, she didn't know what the hullabaloo was about since it looked like a scene from Northern Ireland, but then she stopped in her tracks when she saw the local captions flashing across the screen: TERROR HITS CALIFORNIA'S CENTRAL VALLEY, FATALITIES REPORTED IN ATTACK ON LODI MILITARY BANK. The aerial footage from a news helicopter showed the credit union, which occupied an entire city block, engulfed in flames with a plume of black smoke rising into the air. Broken glass from nearby businesses littered the street, as did park benches and outdoor cafe tables strewn around by the force of the bomb blast. A split screen showed bloodied victims begin carried on stretchers into ambulances and the surrounding streets filled with crowds of panicking civilians running away from the area.

"Oh my God, oh my God!" Tameesha gasped, dropping the plates of country fried steak and eggs and fried catfish that she was carrying. The other patrons in the diner were so affixed to the TV that they only gave a cursory glance to the sound of the dishes shattering on the floor behind the counter. "That's where Otis works!" Tameesha screamed desperately as a wave of fear and panic spread through her body. She looked like she was about to faint and JT rushed around into the counter to stop her from falling down as another waitress also went over to comfort her.

"….and this just in," the news anchor was saying from his desk in New York, "for our breaking news story. At least ten people are confirmed dead after a car bomb exploded in front of the Armed Forces Credit Union in Lodi, California. Rescue operations are under way as firefighters continue to battle the blaze that has spread to at least three other downtown businesses. A man calling himself Comrade Jimmy of the Weather Underground claimed responsibility in a phone call to NBC Studios in San Francisco, calling it justice for so-called 'American war crimes' abroad. Comrade Jimmy claims the Weather Underground is now making good on its threat to bring the war home and threatened more attacks until President Nixon ends all U.S. military involvement in Vietnam….."

"California State Police and San Joaquin County sheriff's deputies are on the scene and have cordoned off a three block area around the Armed Forces Credit Union and bomb-sniffing dogs are currently searching for additional explosives planted in the area…." the news anchor continued to update the viewers, but JT and Piney were already physically supporting Tameesha as the three of them rushed outside to their bikes.

 _Author's Note: I've taken some liberties with the location and geography of Charming, as have the real writers on the show. I'm really trying to bring this town to life in my story. I've noticed Charming is often seen as a negative place in many fanfics and by many characters on the show but that's from the perspective of people who have had certain experiences there and those stories are set in the pleasant day. Here I attempt to go into the roots of the town in the good ol' days and the "charm" that existed there, and may still exist if you are a normal resident not involved with SAMCRO and that lifestyle._

 _The original version of chapter featured an attack at a military recruiting center but that was changed to the credit union in light of the recent Islamic terrorist attack in Chattanooga, Tennessee. I felt it would be insensitive to feature a recruiting center attack so close so what happened in real life. May the American servicemen who lost their lives in that cowardly act rest in peace. I think an attack on a credit union would still realistic since in addition to attacking the military, the left-wing radicals in the 60s and 70s also carried out many violent attacks against financial institutions._


	7. The War At Home

CHAPTER 7: THE WAR AT HOME

ARMED FORCES CREDIT UNION

Thanks to their Harleys, Piney and JT, with Tameesha riding with JT, were able to drive quickly through the slower moving traffic, crossing the 15 miles of irrigated farmland and entering Lodi's downtown commercial district in record time. Even from Lodi's rural outskirts, however, JT could clearly see the thick black smoke rising like a dark, ominous stain against the deep blue sky and puffy white clouds hanging over the small city. Traffic was far worse heading in the opposite direction as a sizable number of people were fleeing the town center in panic. Motorists were honking and shouting at each other to move faster as they made their way past the scene of a fender bender that had occurred amid the panic. At least five helicopters were in the air now, though it wasn't clear whether they belonged to law enforcement or to the media, which was quickly streaming here from as far as Portland to cover what was certainly going to be the national headlines for the next few days at the very least.

They took full advantage of their motorcycles, speeding past the stalled cars on downtown Lodi's narrow streets, sometimes going against traffic and even bypassing several of the parked cars and emergency vehicles, getting as close to the scene as possible. JT saw that the police had already put up the yellow crime scene tape some distance around the smoldering ruins of the credit union even as firefighters continued to spray the building, make sure nothing caught back on fire again. There were dozens of paramedics on the scene, many of the first responders screaming for backup and frantically radioing for more ambulances.

"We need three more Medevac helicopters right here, right now if these people are going to make it!" one EMT was shouting into his beeper. JT saw him motion to one of his female colleagues. "Lodi Hospital's trauma unit is already well over capacity and St. Thomas ER is filling up fast, we're going to have send some of these patients to Stockton. We also need the hospitals in Sacramento on alert."

"Yes, sir," the female EMT said and ran back toward her ambulance to make the call. The University of California hospitals in the Bay Area were notably absent, and this was due to the anti-military sentiment on those campuses. They didn't want to risk another riot by attacking students if ambulances from the bombing were seen approaching those facilities. Plus, even though he knew professionalism was to come first, part of him also didn't trust the staff at the Cal system due to their political differences. After all, some of those medical and nursing students were probably among the protestors who spat on and physically assaulted the returning veterans.

Then JT saw a sight that would haunt him more than anything he had seen in Vietnam. A woman who looked like she was fresh out of college was being rolled toward a waiting ambulance, and one of her legs was completely missing. The EMTs were trying to calm her down and do their best under the circumstances to comfort her even as she began going into shock from the blood loss. JT would never forget the look on her face as she looked down despite the EMTs advice and saw her missing limb.

"Sir, this area's closed, sir…." a Lodi police officer said, trying to block JT, Piney, and Tameesha's way.

"My husband was working there!" Tameesha screamed frantically, "I need to go there and see if…"

The cop followed her as they all went past the yellow tape. "Ma'am, what's his name, do you have a picture of him?"

Tameesha paused and showed the officer a picture of Otis that she pulled out of her wallet. "His name's Otis Cross. He's the student intern from the University of the Pacific's economics program. His desk would be right there by the window."

She gasped, dropping her purse as he saw that the entire half of the structure had been completely blown away and that even the other half of the credit union had been reduced to some tangled steel supports.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cross," the cop said sympathetically, "The van that exploded was parked directly next to where his desk used to be, and I don't have any survivors matching his description. If he was at his desk the moment the bomb exploded, we may not even have anything to identify him with. Again, I'm very sorry to inform you of this, ma'am."

Tameesha fell down to her knees on the pavement and wailed. JT and Piney tried their best to console her, but it was no use. Her fiancée, the father of her newborn child, was gone forever, and there wasn't even a body left for her.

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT, LATER THAT EVENING

Rookie officer Wayne Unser of the Charming Police Department thought today would be his big break as he and his fellow officers watched the news coverage of the terrorist bombing in Lodi. A small city like Lodi was obviously unprepared for this kind of crisis and had quickly called on nearby law enforcement agencies for assistance. Charming was one of the closest and would have a heavy presence at the scene to assist until FBI agents from the San Francisco field office arrived. Military investigators were also headed to Lodi as well, creating a jurisdictional nightmare.

"Unser, come here," Chief of Police Ryan Hancock said, motioning for Unser to come into his office as he hung up the rotary phone. The chief's office was fitting for a small town like Charming, sparsely decorated except for the American and California state flags, the official town seal featuring a miner and farmer, and some historical photos of the local area. Hancock had transferred to Charming from San Jose ten years ago for a more peaceful environment, and had been police chief since Unser was in high school with JT.

"I assume we're responding to the calls for assistance from Lodi, sir?" asked Unser with anticipation.

" _You're_ not, Unser. But I do need you here to take care of anything that arises here in town while we're dealing with the attack. Tuesday night in Charming, shouldn't be too many issues."

"Sir, I…." Unser began.

"You will see more action in due time, Wayne, I promise you that. Just not tonight. This is too far serious of a business we're dealing with right now, especially with the FBI and military investigators on the scene taking charge. And our priority is still right here in Charming. We can only pray that nothing like this ever happens in our town."

"I understand Chief."

"Tell you something, though. You know the Jefferson Ranch, them two brothers out there in the Morada Creek area, their sister's called today about trying to call them for hours and not reaching them, and they were supposed to head over to her place in Lake Tahoe for a little get together. She calls again, y'all might want to check up on them, make sure nothing's out of sorts out there."

"Yes, sir. I'll definitely remember that."

DOWNTOWN LODI

Rescue workers continued to search through the rubble late into the night, and would continue nonstop for two more days, but by this point it was almost entirely a recovery effort. Eventually the death toll would rise to 14, including active duty soldiers, veterans, and civilian employees. Chief Hancock watched grimly as several more badly burned and mangled bodies were taken out of the rubble while family members and friends of the victims continued to wait just past the yellow police tape for whatever news was available, even if it was the worst. Hancock was glad no Weathermen had dared to make their way here from out of town to gloat about their successful attack, because in his state of mind, there was no guarantee he could have kept himself from shooting those bastards on the spot.

After questioning witnesses and helping the Feds and MPs collect evidence and questioning several witnesses who had come forward, Hancock made his way back to the command post to see the military police overseeing the investigation. However, as he approached, he saw that only FBI Special Agent Mark Tasker was there to powwow with the other federal agents and local police gathered for the bombing investigation.

"Agent Tasker, where's, um, the sergeant from NCIS…"

"They've been recalled back to base," Agent Tasker replied, quite tersely in Hancock's opinion. "The FBI alone is in charge of this investigation now."

"I'm sorry, Agent Tasker, but given this was clearly a military property that was targeted by the terrorists I'm just surprised….."

Tasker cut him off. "These directives come straight from Washington. You may not notice in your little town," the Special Agent continued condescendingly, "But the military's quite a sensitive issue these days. Having these Army folks running an investigation could inflame things. Not everyone in California or America. supports the GIs as much as your townspeople do."

 _Boy am I glad I don't live in the Bay Area anymore,_ Hancock wanted to say out loud but bit his tongue. Tasker was definitely a product of that world, with his smug attitude and his fancy Italian suit and his custom made Brooks Brothers tie courtesy of the American taxpayer.

"So what do you have for me, Chief?" Tasker asked.

"Owner of the donut shop next door remembered a green Dodge Maxivan parked right in front of the credit union."

Another agent began furiously taking notes. "As we mentioned before, Agent Tasker, sir, the plates were indeed burned beyond recognition even though they're on the way to San Francisco as we speak. Hopefully the lab will be able to salvage something useful from them, maybe find out who they were registered to."

"Green? Okay," Tasker replied jotting down some notes. "Any other markings on it? A description of the driver?"

"No, sir," said the junior agent, "He was wearing some kind of head covering and was coughing so his face was covered."

"Convenient, eh?" Tasker remarked. "Anything else, people?"

"One more thing," Chief Hancock said, pulling out some sheets of paper for Tasker. "I spoke to some employees of the drugstore over there. Don't know what to make of it, but they said for the past few months, there's been these hippies protesting in front of the credit union. About 3 or 4 of them. All of them were suspiciously absent today, and the lunch hour's typically their favorite protest time given the obvious busy traffic. I don't know if they were spotters for the terrorists, or if the terrorists just gave them a heads up so they're out of the blast radius. I've taken the liberty of having Charming PD's sketch artists make these based on the descriptions we got from these witnesses."

Agent Tasker smiled for the first time in their long conversation. "Good work, Chief. This is certainly helpful. I've have my people back at the San Fran Field Office try to find a match against known members of the Weather Underground. And just some friendly advice to you, from Washington as well. When you're talking to the press, especially the national media, try not to refer to our suspects as terrorists. Washington and the national media prefers 'militants', or 'radicals'. The term 'terrorist' is a big too loaded, especially in today's controversial political climate. After all, there are those who believe the soldiers are the real terrorists in Vietnam. Again, that comes from Washington."

"Thank you, sir, for your insight," Hancock replied as straightly as possible, "Just been a small town cop the past ten years, been out of the loop of national affairs."

"Good work. Let me know if you find anything else."

Agent Tasker went back into his mobile command post and took a look at the sketches the Charming police had provided of the four radical activists who regularly protested in front of the financial institution. They were of surprisingly good quality, with many clear facial features that could easily be matched with the FBI records. Instead of utilizing these pictures, however, Tasker immediately tore them to shreds and dumped the pieces into the trash can.

JEFFERSON RANCH

"Something don't feel right here," Unser said as he and Tincher made left their police cruiser and made their way down the path toward the main house on the property. The Jefferson brothers' sister had indeed called again to check up on them, and still no answer to Unser and Tincher decided to drive out to Morada Creek to see what was going on.

"What makes you say that, rookie?" Tincher asked, making sure to remind his partner of his inexperience.

"Just my gut instinct. We need to be careful here," Unser replied, removing his gun from his holster and taking the safety off.

"You know how many missing persons reports are actually legit, Wayne?" Tincher asked, referring to the countless false alarms where people had just wandered off, or couldn't reach a phone, or just had an emotional breakdown and skipped town for a couple days. He soon stopped, though, as he saw the large amount of fresh tire tracks in the dirt near the garage. "Looks like there's been an unusual level of activity here recently though."

The cattle on the ranch were wandering aimlessly around the grazing fields, and several of the Jefferson brothers' dogs could be heard whimpering from inside the garage.

"You might be on to something here," Tincher whispered, also drawing his weapon as they quietly made their way toward the garage. Everything looked and felt deserted, though, Unser thought to himself. Whatever had happened here happened hours ago. A few moments later, they kicked down the door and swept the room. They saw the two dogs circling their owners' dead bodies as flies buzzed through the air.

"Shit," Tincher cursed. "Let's call this in."

CORONER'S OFFICE, CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

It was clear that Lisa Ann Jefferson was typically quite a stunner despite her disheveled appearance as she and her husband got out of the station wagon with Nevada plates and made their way into the Charming Police Department building. Unser and Hancock didn't blame her at all. She had been given the general description of the two dead bodies bound on her brothers' ranch, and they certainly matched those of her siblings. For all intents and purposes, this was basically a technicality. One look at her face made it clear to both Unser and Hancock that she had been crying much of the way here. Both of them shook their heads internally as they walked her into the police department building. First the horrible terrorist attack nearby, and how a double homicide right here within Charming city limits. Charming had only seen seven murders in the 10 years Hancock had headed the department.

They walked silently into the coroner's office in the rear of the building, where the forensics experts had the two bodies prepared.

Lisa took one look at them and nodded., telling the officers quietly, "Yes, those are my brothers."

"What….what happened? I deserve to know the truth."

Hancock nodded and Unser began. "We know there were two killers judging from the different bullet types involved. Both bullets come from Czechoslovakian pistols that we believe were smuggled here from Mexico. They've been turning up in crime scenes throughout the state. Judging from the wounds, it looks like the killers took them by surprise. Most likely it's someone they knew. I'm very, very sorry to ask you this, but to the best of your knowledge, did either of your brothers have any involvement with individuals with criminal connections."

Lisa shook here head hard several times. "No, absolutely not!" She then paused. "There _is_ something, though. They…they were supposed to sell their van to this farmer before they headed up to visit me."

"Did they mention who this farmer is? If he's someone that y'all might know from this area?" asked Hancock.

"No….no they didn't," replied Lisa, "They put these classified ads out in the newspaper and got a call. They been trying to sell it for months, it's older, guess not many people were interested."

"Ma'am, would you know what type of van it was, by any chance?"

Hancock looked at the rookie with a weird expression as if to say _What kind of question is that? Why the hell is that relevant?_

"It was a green Dodge Maxivan."

"Jesus Christ," the chief exclaimed.

VFW POST, CHARMING

The Veteran of Foreign Wars post in Charming was located in a small, single story wooden structure on Business Route 99 in a mixed residential and commercial neighborhood just south of the town center. The inside, which included a multipurpose room, a dance hall, and a bar was much more homey and comfortable than the building's unassuming exterior would have suggested. It was here that Clay, Piney, and JT felt most at home. They were glad that the VFW, as its name suggested, limited its membership to veterans who actually saw action on the battlefield. They had every bit of respect for the National Guardsmen who rescued stranded residents of Louisiana from the floodwaters of Hurricane Camille, those of them who had been directly in the line of fire shared a sudden brotherhood that nobody else, not even other soldiers, could ever understand. This time, however, it was just Clay and Piney here as JT needed some time alone to deal with Otis's death.

Clay stood silently for a moment, chewing some tobacco as he stood on the bar's outdoors patio which overlooked Morada Creek, a small tributary that ran from Charming to the San Joaquin River. He and Piney had been sharing some drinks and conversation with a group of World War II and Korean War vets but needed a smoke to maintain his composure after the paperboy dropped off a stack of copies of the _Oakland Tribune_. Radical national protest organizer Saul Alinsky was quoted as saying "What goes around does come back around after all". Even as he denounced the attacks for show, Alinsky went on to claim that the US military brought it upon themselves through their actions in Southeast Asia.

"Will you look at this bullshit?" Clay growled. He spit out his tobacco right onto Alinsky's face on the picture, then wrinkled up the entire newspaper into a ball and hurled it into Morada Creek, watching it flow downstream. "I'll kill that son of a bitch!" He squeezed his Budweiser bottle so hard it nearly cracked.

"You can't let these bastards get to you, Clay," Piney said, squeezing Clay's shoulders, though it was quite obvious Piney shared the indignant rage. "Alinsky's a fucking idiot and a loser. Those SDS guys are a bunch of drug addicts with no worth in their lives. We both know what happened to JT. I don't want to be visiting you in prison next."

"We got your back, and that's all that matters," said Marshall, one of the WW2 vets they had been hanging out with as he returned to the patio table with a mixed bucket of Budweisers and Coors Lights.

"Thanks, and we appreciate the acceptance we've gotten here," Piney told Marshall sincerely, "I know some other VFW posts look down on us 'Nam people. You got guys like our parents who fought their way through Okinawa and…."

"Now you look at me, son," Marshall said, "Yes, I'm proud of what I and my guys done over in Normandy. I also realize that we were blessed with a president and a Congress that unleashed us on those Nazi bastards without mercy. They let us to whatever the hell we needed to, there was none of that touchy feely I feel so bad for the enemy bullshit that y'all have to deal with. Look, you did everything you could over in Vietnam. You defeated the commie bastards every time you engaged those sons of bitches. You did everything that this government let you do to win that war."

"What the….." they heard a shout, then the entire VFW hall exploded in a hail of bullets as the windows facing Route 99 shattered, as did the glass light fixtures above the pool tables and the alcohol bottles behind the bar.

"Get down!" Piney shouted , pushing Marshall and Clay out of the way as the bullets also reached the outdoors area. Clay immediately removed his pistol from his holster and opened fire across the pool area, glancing a slow moving Toyota Carina sedan. It was driven by a young man with a red bandana who was firing a Soviet Kalashnikov rifle.

"This is for Vietnam!" the driver shouted in a rage as he continued firing into the veterans post.

The passenger seat and the back seats were also filled with young gunmen dressed in similar attire, the ones on the far side of the Carina hanging out of the vehicle. Another vet also opened fire but was grazed in the shoulder, falling down on the ground clutching it.

One of the attackers hurled a Molotov cocktail with the markings of the Weather Underground on it into the VFW post. It landed on one of the pool tables which quickly ignited, spreading to the chairs and booths around the central area. One of the pool players was on fire. Piney quickly removed his leather motorcycle jacket and started using it to beat out the flames consuming the man.

Clay jumped over the railing of the patio and dashed through some undergrowth, climbing the hill back to the main road. Using his precise military skills, Clay fired a bullet directly into the driver's brain, splattering his brain and pieces of his skull into the window. The other terrorists immediately started panicking. The Weatherman in the driver's seat shoved his dead comrade's body out onto the street and got into his seat, speeding off. Clay then jumped onto his bike, continuing to engage the Weathermen as two of them returned fire, sending several vehicles swerving to avoid the gunfire .

Clay shot one of the Weathermen as he leaned out the window to fire, not sure if he killed or injured him, but a bullet from the Toyota struck Clay's front tire, causing him to lose control of the bike and rear end a car on the lane over, propelling him through the air until he landed on the median. "Fuck!"

 _Author's Note: Richard Nixon was the President of the United States during the time this story is set, however its not meant to be implied that he would directly condone the actions of the federal government depicted in this and subsequent chapters. A lot of the government actions against Vietnam veterans, including leaving thousands of POW/MIAs in communist hands at the end of the war, was the work of subsequent administrations. So there are some historical anachronisms for the purposes of the plot._


	8. 21 Guns

_Author's Note: I hope y'all like my interpretation of Charming in 1969 and 1970 and through a far less jaded lens compared to how Jax and Tara eventually come to view their hometown. I know Charming has always a place apart from its surroundings. While I did some research on California's Central Valley, part of my inspiration for Charming comes from the Appalachian South and the rural Midwest._

 _I feel this story is especially timely today as we are facing similar issues with our military having their hands tied behind their backs and not able to unleash their full power against ISIS due to Obama and the liberals' obsession about minimizing civilian casualties. Today, just like back then, there are those in the media and government who refuse to put American lives and American interests first, which is a duty for our elected officials._

CHAPTER 8: 21 GUNS

" _I did what I had to do to win! But somebody wouldn't let us win! And I come back to the world and I see all those maggots at the airport, protesting me, spitting. Calling me baby killer and all kinds of vile crap. Who are they to protest me, huh? Who are they? Unless they've been me and been there and know what the hell they're yelling about!" – John Rambo in "Rambo: First Blood" starring Sylvester Stallone_

APRIL 1970

FBI COMMAND POST, LODI

This time, Wayne Unser and his partner Tincher accompanied Chief Hancock to the FBI's mobile command unit that Special Agent Tasker worked out of. Several days had now passed, and crews had already taken a significant chunk of the building's mangled remains to scrapyards. A street sweeping company had already been called in and did their best to make the surrounding pavement look as if the bombing had never occurred. It immediately struck Unser as odd how quickly this kind of work was being done. After all, shouldn't they be combing through the ruins more carefully to find more explosive residues that they might have missed? Like all law enforcement, Unser wanted investigations to move quickly, especially a high profile one like this where the public demanded answers, but this was going way too fast. He also noticed that the crowds of media folks had thinned considerably.

Agent Tasker quickly opened the door to his command post after Hancock knocked.

"Yes, Chief?" The same dismissive, smug attitude was there in his voice as well as on his face. Today, he wore a different Italian suit and was drinking coffee from Lodi's most expensive coffee shop, courtesy of the American taxpayer of course. Tasker took a sip of his coffee and winced, putting it down as they motioned for the Charming cops to enter the large vehicle. "This coffee is a horrible concoction, and this is the best there is in town? How do you people live out here? I can't wait to get back to civilization and drink some real European latte. Anyway, what have you boys got for me?"

"First, I'm just wondering if you've managed to get any leads from the sketches I had given you of the protesters who were mysteriously missing the day of the bombing?"

"Our people in San Francisco are attempting to cross reference it, but nothing's come up yet. It may just be, um, coincidence after all. But we're still looking at it. Is there anything else that brings you here?"

"Also, these are Officers Unser and Tincher from my department, and we're here to share with you some additional happenings in Charming that are relevant. We should be expanding this operation and we stand ready to assist to the best of our abilities."

Tasker coughed purposely and looked up at him arrogantly, squeezing a large amount of cream into his coffee. "Um….excuse me? _We_ should expand the investigation? I know you boys are trying to help but be careful which boundaries you tread on. You've been quite zealous in your actions thus far, but keep in mind this is _my_ investigation and that's how Washington wants it."

"Sir, with all due respect, we're just here to present further evidence we've uncovered…"

"Then just present it. As you can see, I'm a busy man, and my clock runs faster than Charming time, if you fellows shall be respectful enough to recognize that."

"We… sir, the Weather Underground, the group that claimed responsibility for this attack, purchased their vehicle in Charming, and killed the two men who were selling it to them." Unser dropped several pictures from the Jefferson Ranch crime scene onto the table next to Tasker's coffee cup.

"And you're absolutely sure about this? This isn't just some redneck families feuding over, what is it in these parts, I guess it would be over a steer, right? Or is it a moonshine still?"

Unser did his best to maintain his composure and speak in a respectful tone. "I'm not sure if we'd call it a professional hit, but it looks like the suspects knew what they were doing and had a level of military-style training beyond what even the typical gun-toting Central Valley redneck possesses."

Officer Tincher came forward with some sealed plastic evidence bags. "We have more at our station that we need for our own local investigation, but these are the shell casings we found at the Jefferson Ranch where these two men were killed. As you may be aware, they're from the same batch of Czechoslovakian weapons that are being smuggled here over from the Communist Bloc. This same batch and a similar one from East Germany has been used in several other Weathermen attacks throughout Northern California. Most recently the one last night at the VFW post in Charming."

"Again I'm not sure why you people are rushing into all these conclusions without definitive evidence," Tasker replied impatiently, "What do you mean Weathermen attacks?" There had been several small scale attacks on military targets and military families throughout the area in the past several months. "Maybe you need to rule out other possibilities. I know there are some in this country who like to believe there's a large scale conspiracy against our veterans, but I assure you there's not. I think you're biased…"

"What do you call this?" Hancock shot back, putting more pictures on the table. "You think someone else would firebomb a VFW post with a Molotov cocktail with the Weathermen symbol on it, or shout 'This is for Vietnam' as they drove by opening fire? By the way, guess what weapons were used? AK-47's made in the USSR! And by the way, the dead terrorist whose body was left on Highway 99 was identified as a Stanford University student. I made some calls to university police and they said this gentleman in question was heavily involved in radical campus politics. So far we concluded his death was obviously an act of self defense by the vets. We're keeping it quiet with the media beyond our local newspapers. It might offend their sensibilities, I've learned."

Tasker shook his head. "And they can't tell you that he was a Weatherman. Once again, nothing concrete, and that's why I'm a Federal agent, and none of you are, cause you see, you fail to consider all the possibilities. How do you know what happened at the VFW wasn't some guys who got thrown out of there or banned because of some drama that took place there? Maybe they pretended it was a Weathermen attack to keep things in-house. As for those guns, yes those were Czechoslovakian and East German weapons, but those same batches have been showing up in gang shootings and mob hits all over the state. And maybe that dead Stanford guy had connections to the Charming VFW that you might not know about, given that you're so jumping to the conclusion about which direction you're taking your investigation."

"With all due respect, Agent Tasker, I think the things we've presented to you at least deserve another look," Unser said.

"I'll dispatch some agents to the Jefferson Ranch, alright, given the vehicle was purchased there, even though I'm not sure what good that will really do. As for the VFW attack, I'm not going to expand the scope of this investigation to there at the moment. We simply don't have the resources to devote to that based on what in my opinion is very circumstantial evidence. If you'll excuse me now, I must get back to work."

HIGHWAY 99, IN BETWEEN LODI AND CHARMING

"That was some serious bullshit right there," Tincher said as they watched the cornfields and cattle ranches pass by on their way back to Charming. "But why would they take us seriously, right? They probably think we're just a bunch of small town cops with overambitious career aspirations thinking this case can help us. So much cynical thinking going around with those Feds."

"Maybe so, but I think there are much darker forces at work here. Anyway, I've never trusted the federal government," Hancock told his two officers, "Never have, never will. That's why I made some extra copies of the protester sketches before I gave them to Tasker. Wayne, you mentioned you have a contact at San Francisco PD?"

"Yeah, Chief," Unser replied, "Was in the police academy with him, he's now a detective over there."

"Good, they're also part of the task force. Set up a meet with him and run these by him."

MT. ZION BAPTIST CHURCH, LODI

The day of Otis Cross's funeral was almost like a scene out of a Hollywood movie. No, this being California, there were no April showers or mourners in umbrellas greeting the hearse as it made its way to Otis's church from the funeral home, but today the thick fog from the Pacific coast reached farther inland than it typically did, shrouding the entire scene in a shroud of gray. Tameesha and the rest of Otis's family had decided that instead of Arlington National Cemetery, they wanted Otis buried next to his family on the property of the black church he had been a lifelong member of. JT thought of how the late Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had lamented that Sunday was the most segregated day in America. He had never seen a black or Mexican person in the Catholic church he grew up in, and this was his first time entering a black church. JT looked around at the faces of the soldiers who had gathered here for the service. It was a shame that it took a tragedy of this magnitude to bring all of these people here.

The service was definitely an interesting and novel experience for JT and the other veterans. There was some surprisingly upbeat singing and dancing by the choir and other members of Mt. Zion Baptist Church's regular congregation. Instead of just mourning his passing, this event was also about celebrating Otis's life. JT, Piney, and Clay sat in the pew right behind Tameesha and her children and Piney leaned forward.

He held her hand for several seconds. "Trust me, Tameesha. We're going through the very same thing."

"The Korean War vet whom Piney and Clay saved at the VFW, how's he doing?"

"He's still in critical condition at the St. Thomas ICU but is expected is survive. He suffered third degree burns on more than 40% of his body. It's going to be a long road to recovery, I can tell you that," JT answered with a frown, shaking his head in anger.

"Why do they do this, JT?" Tameesha said, sobbing. "It's not enough for them to spit in your faces the moment y'all come home. It's not enough to literally piss on you and throw shit on y'all. They have to come here, all the way here to our communities and murder us in cold blood. Why?"

JT felt the tears well up in his own eyes, then he let them fall as he held her hands to comfort her. "I wish I had a answer for that, Tameesha, but I really don't, and I'm so sorry. All we ever did was love this country."

The pastor of the church, The Reverend James Martin, started out with a long eulogy of Otis Cross, reminiscing on the memories they had shared together, starting when Otis was in his first Sunday School class to when he became a Christian summer camp counselor, and how he ministered to his teammates on the high school football team.

"Otis Cross lived a tragically short life, but in the time he had on this Earth, he did more for America, and more for the Lord than most people who are given three or four times the years." He looked around the room. "I know many of y'all are angry, and so am I. I share your anger against the government for sending young men like Otis Cross into war without the tools and authority to win in. And I share your anger in the society today that accuses heroes like Otis Cross of being baby killers, while celebrating the actions of the abortionists who murder thousands of God's children every year. We live in dark times, but whatever lies ahead, I am hopeful, because just as God has protected the Children of Israel, He will protect his flock today no matter what trials….."

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY

Professor Rogers shut the door to the study room on the 6th floor of Doe Memorial Library and closed the shades on the interior window separating it from the bookshelves and open study areas. Officially, this was a private tutoring session for some students from his Ethnic Studies class just before final exams, but in reality, it was another meeting of the Weather Underground. Jimmy, Deanna, and Antonio took out their textbooks and class notes just in case someone barged in, in order to maintain the act. He never met with his faction leaders at the same location twice. He didn't think anyone was on to him, but you could never be too careful. Even with the police investigation seeming to go nowhere, Rogers maintained what he considered a healthy level of paranoia.

"I only hope that the foolish attack in Charming doesn't bring any additional heat on us," Deanna said. "I've asked around and I don't believe any of our own people were involved. Besides I highly doubt any of us would act without direct approval."

Comrade Jimmy nodded his agreement as he held her hand and she began to sensually massage him under the table.

"Those cocksucking _idiotas chinganas!"_ Antonio cursed in profane Spanglish, "They could not even kill a single one of those soldiers!"

"We think the Stanford cell might be the ones responsible," Professor Rogers said, "Unless it's a bunch of motivated but incompetent homegrown revolutionaries simply inspired by our actions." His own terror cell maintained the utmost level of discipline with a clear command structure with him at the very top. No operations big or small were performed without his direct, personal sanction. To his knowledge, the Stanford Weathermen were more loosely organized into smaller mini-cells. Rogers believed in a strong hierarchy. As much as Comrade Lenin spoke about the revolutionary roles of the socialist proletariat, he still personally led the original Bolshevik revolution that established the Soviet Union. Stalin, Mao Zedong, Fidel Castro, and their new favorite Ho Chi Minh all ruled with an iron fist. "I share your concerns about them bringing down heat on the Weather Underground as a whole. However, nothing's more terrifying to our enemies than knowing they're hunted, but not having any idea who or where their hunters are."

All three of his students nodded in agreement.

"So you have a different kind of concern, Professor?"

"I do indeed," Rogers replied, looking through the window blinds on the glass overlooking the library stacks to make sure nobody was eavesdropping on their supposed exam review session. "While any attack on this country's military-industrial complex is to be commended, sloppy acts like these performed in the name of the Weather Underground, whether they're legitimate members or not, hurts our organization's prestige. When its done here in our region, it specifically hurts the prestige of our cell."

Comrade Jimmy knew what Rogers was getting at. "So we have to up the scale of our attacks even beyond what we did in Lodi, to ensure that our prominence in the workers struggle is maintained."

Rogers nodded. "Yes exactly. Antonio, the Mayans have always been good business partners and we are indebted to you for your connections with them. They've always delivered on time and the weapons have always worked as advertised. But I need to know if they'll be able to satisfy a dramatic increase in demand."

"It depends on many factors, _jefe_. How much of an increased demand are we talking about? Doubling the firepower we receive every months? Tripling it?"

"Well, what's the most you think they can deliver on?" Rogers inquired ambitiously. So far their operational security was intact as far as he knew. It was time to think much bigger, especially since Nixon had been silent about the Lodi bombing and the air campaign now continued unabated in not only North Vietnam but Cambodia and Laos as well.

"They should be able to triple it. More than that would depend on their Irish connections." The Weathermen ultimately received many of their arms from the Soviet Union, but it went through a convoluted web of multiple intermediaries so that the Kremlin could maintain some level of official deniability. "The larger concern, _patron_ , is that the Mayans will need us to sell a lot more product as part of the current business relationship."

Jimmy laughed. "Without drugs, sex might not happen and rock and roll isn't that fun when you're not high. C'mon _amigo_ , this is Berkeley. Everybody here knows that. Whatever product the Mayans need us to distribute, we'll have it all sold in a week."

"Besides, I don't think we have to worry too much about the cops at the moment. Those pigs have far too many things to worry about to care about this kind of mundane shit in the residence halls," Deanna added.

"Okay," Rogers decided, then turned to Antonio. "But if we're taking this relationship to a new level I need the three of you to meet with the Mayans charter president or at least their VP in person to renegotiate these percentages. We also need to confirm the quality of the product we'll be selling for them on campus, and see proof of the new weapons they can offer."

" _Por supuesto, patron_ ," Antonio replied, "I'll call the Mayans and set things up."

MT. ZION CEMETERY

"You're Corporal Teller, correct?"

JT turned and saw Reverend Martin approaching him.

"Yes, sir, pastor."

"Otis mentioned a lot about you in the letters he sent back from Nam. He truly looked up to you."

"He was a far better leader and soldier than I was. He's the only reason I and many of us are standing here right now. Otis believed in loyalty and honor even when those in charge of the war didn't."

"Yes, Otis has always done the right thing," Reverend Martin said, "Which brings me to this, Corporal. I've been observant throughout the service, and the Lord has placed it upon my heart to speak to you, about doing the right thing. I sense that despite the message I preached today, you still have this desire for retribution. That…that is understandable given the unjust circumstances we live in today, but as you know, someone like me has faced injustice my entire life. But in the end, it's important to put everything in God's hands."

Was it _that_ obvious that JT's ears had been deaf to that part of the message during the funeral service?

"Pastor, I'm not familiar with this denomination. I was raised Catholic. However, I remember that it says in Deuteronomy 32:35 'To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.' It also says 'For he will avenge the blood of his servants, and will render vengeance to his adversaries and will be merciful unto his land, and to his people. If we are to seek vengeance, would we not be doing God's work in this case.?If He allows us to succeed, would it not be part of the plan?"

"Corporal Teller, that verse is in relation to specific events in the Old Testament, to how He will punish the enemies of Israel. Even then, keep in mind it is the Lord Himself who will take vengeance on Israel's behalf. I would like to point you to the book of Romans verses 17 to 21. 'Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.' In the end it is only God's judgment that matters. Think about eternity, son. The time we have on this Earth, it is like the last five seconds relative to the entire time you've been alive, and then some. Divine vengeance will surpass any kind of sentence a court here in the world can hand down, just remember that."

"I'm not sure I have the strength to do that, Pastor." JT said. All of a sudden, he wanted out of this conversation. He wasn't even a Baptist. Maybe he can just go to his Catholic church and confess in the end, he thought darkly. All he could feel right now was his anger and hatred toward the animals who had killed his friend and who continued to attack his fellow veterans in his own town.

"Then you must pray and ask the Lord to give you that strength, my son," Reverend Martin said. "Because the road you want to take will only lead to more darkness. That I am certain of."

CHURCH PARKING LOT

"Wayne, I didn't expect to see you here," JT said, walking over to him in the church parking lot as many of the mourners began leaving the cemetery. It was a touching traditional military funeral, complete with a military band playing Taps and an honor guard firing off a 21 gun salute.

Unser lit up his Marlboro cigarette and took a puff on it. "This is probably after you left for the Army, but Tameesha and I became pretty good friends after she started working at Harvey's. She'd, um, tell me stories about the war that he got from Otis, may he rest in peace. And about you too."

"Me?"

"You've always been the legend around here, whether you admitted it or not. You, your father, your family, you're a big deal. Maybe not like the Oswalds, but you were a big deal, especially with football and all. Me, I'm nobody, couldn't even pass the physical to join the Army."

"You wanted to join the Army, Wayne?" JT asked curiously. He and Wayne Unser graduated from Charming High School together, but rarely spoke to one another in school beyond rubbing shoulders in the hallways. It wouldn't be accurate to say that JT ever looked down on Unser before, just that he never really gave much thought about him one way or another.

"I did, just like you, Piney, Otis and all the other boys. I wanted to serve my country. I was sick and tired of watching the news and seeing the commies grow more powerful every day, because if we didn't do something about it over there, we would be fighting them over here. So now here I am," Unser said, glancing at his badge. "Making a difference in much smaller ways, I guess."

"Except the fight _is_ here now, Wayne, right here in Charming," JT said darkly. "Maybe the Good Lord does have a plan for you right now. How's the investigation going, by the way? I know Charming PD's working under the Feds, and now we got this attack on our very own VFW."

"It's terrible, to be honest with you. I'm not really at liberty to tell you any of this, but goddamn it. I honestly don't think the Feds are interested in solving this case at all, and the Chief has the same gut feeling."

"What makes you say that?" asked JT. "I've had that feeling from the beginning. I never expected justice, and now you've simply confirmed my suspicions."

Unser told him about his experiences with Tasker and how the FBI had brushed off all of their theories, and the quick cleanup taking place at the scene of the bombing.

"Jesus Christ, man. I can't believe this."

"Look, I don't know what the hell is going on exactly, but this is coming straight down from Washington. Not Nixon, I don't think, but there are elements up in the government bureaucracy who don't want our investigation to go anywhere and aren't the least bit interested in bringing these animals to justice. Maybe with the current political climate, they don't want a direct, serious confrontation with the Weather Underground, especially with all the sympathy the mainstream media's been depicting them with. Just a bunch of idealistic college students standing up to these grave global injustices. Maybe they're afraid of provoking more violence and chaos, or how all this is gonna play out in other parts of the country. If I had to be truly paranoid, I'd say it's possible the commie sympathizers have infiltrated the government at the higher levels. Or maybe they expect Nixon will be able to bomb the commies to the negotiating table and end the war and the Weathermen will just disband. In any case, I don't think they give a rat's ass about getting justice for Otis Cross and everyone else who died in Lodi, or the vets who were wounded at the VFW the other day or anyone victimized by the latest string of Weathermen attacks."

"Wayne, I need you to look me in the eye and listen to what I'm about to tell you right now. You know how we Charming boys are. That part of our reputation I'm damn proud of. If they're not going to give us justice, we're going to find our own justice."

The words of Reverend Martin echoed in the back of JT's mind. _If you embark on this path, there will only be darkness ahead of you._ But he was in darkness right here right now, JT told himself. And while he was driven by revenge, he also told himself that the Weathermen would never stop their attacks and that he and his family would never be safe. Things became more and more clear as he listened to Unser tell him about the investigation, and as his mind drifted back to Tameesha holding Taddarius as she sobbed in the pew, as he listened to Piney and Clay tell him about the attack on the VFW, and being at the scene at the bomb itself. It was also about his brothers in arms in the military, who couldn't find the peace they deserved even here at home.

"This conversation will remain just between you and me, but I need you to keep me updated on whatever you find on the Weathermen and anyone else involved in these attacks, because one way or another, justice will be served. Can you do this for me, Wayne?"

Unser hesitated only slightly at the kind of request JT was making. "Yes, JT. I'll do that for you."

JT nodded and motioned for Piney and Clay to follow him as they walked back across the foggy graveyard to Otis's new, sparkling marble tombstone. JT quickly filled his friends in on his conversation with Unser, but he already knew they would agree, because that was how well they all knew each other, and it was a bond that had only been strengthened by the horrors of Vietnam.

JT knelt down in front of Otis's grave. "Brother, I'm here because of you. We're here because of you. I….I know what kind of courage it took not just to get us back from our enemies, but the courage it took when you stood up to our commanders just to approve the operation. You put everything on the line for us. You've done right by us in every way you can possibly imagine, and right now, we promise that we're going to do right by you."


	9. All Roads Lead to the Table

CHAPTER 9: ALL ROADS LEAD TO THE TABLE

JUNE 1970

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR, BUCKHEAD NEIGHBORHOOD, CHARMING / NEW YORK CITY, 1965-1968

The auto repair shop owned by JTs father Cliff was located in an industrial area by the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad tracks just west of downtown Charming, well away from the town's main commercial drags, but he still did brisk business. That was because he was one of the best and especially in a small town like Charming, word of mouth was by far the most effective kind of marketing. Today, though, the parking area outside the garage was lined with several bikes even though business hours officially ended a few hours ago.

JT nodded to Clay, who closed the outer gate of the property, ensuring nobody could approach without attracting attention, and if someone did do that, the men gathered here all took full advantage of their 2nd amendment rights. One by one, they made their way through the mechanical area of the garage past several Ford and Chevy pickups being kept for overnight service and into the comfortable back area, to what looked like a large conference room next to Cliff Teller's private office. JT, Clay, Piney, Otto Moran, Lenny Janowitz, and Unser immediately took their seats, with JT at the head of the table.

There were several other men present, men who had been close friends with one or several of the above. Keith McGee was a bike aficionado that ran in the same circles as Clay and Lenny. McGee originally hailed from a Catholic area of Belfast, Northern Ireland, but he didn't want any part of the sectarian conflict between the Catholics and Protestants there. Too many people he knew, including his father, had been jailed for being involved in terrorist activities with the IRA against the British government. He grew up leading a life of petty crime then graduated to smuggling weapons through the "peace walls" separating Protestant and Catholic Belfast. For him it was more about money than ideology, and he had always hoped to eventually leave the streets of Belfast behind.

That day came rather suddenly and unexpectedly when the conflict found him. A tip to British MI5 from an anonymous source within the IRA helped the authorities foil a terrorist plot to bomb a commuter train serving several Protestant neighborhoods in East Belfast. Stopping the attack was this informant's ticket out of the IRA and a new identity, but he remained paranoid and framed Keith McGee as the snitch and outed him to the Irish Kings, the IRA leadership. After all, Keith was an arms dealer so the informant had no qualms about throwing him under the bus. The informant told the Irish Kings that McGee sold them out in an attempt to secure an early release from his father, then faked his own death.

So it was a complete surprise when an IRA hit team assaulted his apartment in West Belfast one day. In fact, he thought it was a rival crime ring or the police. It was only after Keith fought his way out, leaving seven dead gunmen in his wake, that he discovered they were dispatched by the IRA itself, one of his most lucrative business connections. Keith went to the only man he could trust, an IRA-affiliated Catholic bishop by the name of Father Ashby, the priest who had helped raise him, starting with his infant baptism. Despite the fact that Father Ashby was a recruiter for the IRA who preached a warped, violent version of Catholicism from the pulpit, he somehow believed Keith's claims that he was set up, or at least pretended to. Father Ashby then provided McGee with a one-way plane ticket to New York City and fake American documents with the help of a bribed U.S. consulate official with personal ties to Belfast.

Keith tried to turn his life around, living in a working class area of Staten Island and doing menial jobs around the city. Unable to afford a vehicle and unwilling to rely on the dangerous, filthy subway, he purchased a used motorcycle that allowed him to commute all over the five boroughs as well as nearby parts of Long Island and New Jersey. His "legal" status in America actually harmed him. Many employers would rather hire illegals whom they can pay below minimum wage. For McGee, that kind of lifestyle was worse than the poverty he witnessed in Belfast. Things changed for him one day when he met Lenny Janowitz and Otto Moran one day at a small, run-down pub on Staten Island. It was rare for the regulars there to even acknowledge Keith even when he regularly went their after work. New York's older neighborhoods were notoriously clichy and unwelcoming to outsiders, and even the Irish Americans there didn't see Keith as one of them. No matter anyway, cause they were hardly Irish in his eyes after so many generations in America. But Lenny and Otto were also transplants dealing with the unfriendliness of the Big Apple, and they were also avid bikers, so they quickly struck up a conversation.

Lenny and Otto had left Charming for both adventure and business. Lenny became an associate of the Colombo crime family, one of the city's five major Mafia families, and helped them pimp hookers outside the red light businesses near Times Square while Otto was part of a protection racket also run by the Colombos. Keith used his street smarts to his full advantage and were soon taken aboard by Otto and Lenny. As rough as Belfast was, New York was worse. Bodies began piling up as Puerto Rican street gangs encroached on the Mafia's territory and demanded their own part of the business. The running gun battles they had to fight against the Puerto Ricans in the Bronx made Belfast's sectarian violence seem boring in comparison. It was during this trial by fire that Keith and the Charming guys went from business associates to inseparable friends.

The increased level of violence threatened the unofficial arrangements between the Mafia and corrupt elements in the NYPD. The Colombos were pushed to accepting a tense cease fire giving the Puerto Ricans a permanent foothold in the Bronx, but both the Puerto Ricans and the corrupt cops demanded that Lenny, Otto, and Keith leave New York. Silently, they knew it was because their reputation was so feared that the Puerto Ricans wanted to make sure they never had to deal with them again if the truce ever broke down. The timing worked out well as the Colombos had friends in the Bay Area's Cacuzza family, so Keith followed his friends back to California. After only a few months, Lenny and Otto were arrested in a police sting operation against the Cacuzzas and sent to Stockton State Prison while Keith kept his head low in Charming working at the Oswald lumber yard.

With nobody left to turn to, JT, Piney and Clay could only rely on the connections that JT had made during his own time in Stockton following the unfair conviction stemming from his altercation with the student protestors at Fisherman's Wharf.

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR, 1970

Also in the room were Wally Grazer and Thomas Whitney, two of Lenny's associates from the Charming area. They had both been acquaintances with JT during high school. They served as Air Force pilots in Vietnam from 1965 to 1967, returning stateside shortly after JT's deployment. While they avoided the kind of traumatic experiences JT faced, they knew fellow pilots who were shot down and captured by the North Vietnamese. The mainstream news media never covered what happened to them, but Wally and Thomas discovered the truth while on leave in Thailand. In a brothel there, a local TV station showed propaganda videos released by the communists. One prisoner they recognized was shown in solitary confinement in the Hanoi Hilton with deep, bleeding welts all over his body being electrocuted by a cattle prod to his genitals. That man had lost at least half of his body weight and was a mere skeleton, like the Holocaust survivors shown in the news after the Allied liberation of the Nazi concentration camps. Another American POW they didn't recognize was shown being fed to crocodiles in a swamp while the commies laughed, cheered, and took shots of Soviet vodka in the background. Having seen combat in Vietnam, Thomas and Wally were both members of the Charming VFW post and were good friends with the older veteran who had been critically burned in the Weathermen attack.

Wally and Thomas had trouble adjusting to life back in America, and even in Charming, they faced intense job discrimination as Vietnam vets. They understood that for many business owners it was an overreaction. They themselves often had no problem hiring vets, yet were afraid of alienating customers who either opposed the war or were uncomfortable having the vets around. It was similar to how many business owners a decade ago had no problem with black customers, but still placed "whites only" signs on their doors out of a fear of community rejection. The two eventually went back into the biking culture they were part of in high school and became involved in petty crimes around the area. Somehow, they had avoided being caught by the law. When Piney informed them of the plan to avenge the events in Lodi and Charming, they never hesitated, not for a single moment.

The last man there was Detective Ray Gao of the San Francisco Police Department. Like Wayne Unser, he was not in uniform and not even supposed to be here. His presence immediately drew some attention from the others despite JT's efforts to keep everyone calm and composed.

"Another fucking cop?" Otto Moran said, giving Gao a death stare, "I'm not even completely comfortable with Wayne here, and we and him go way back to since we were kids, but this guy?"

JT spoke up, looking around the room to make sure everyone around the table was hearing him. "Look, everyone. I trust Wayne on this. We're here on my family's property, if I didn't trust Detective Gao, he wouldn't be here right now."

That did little to assuage some of the suspicions at first, especially from those with criminal records. "But why would he help us? What's in it for him? There's no way any of us can afford to pay for the information, if it's as good as y'all claim it is," remarked Lenny. His time in Stockton prison and earlier on the streets of New York had made him increasingly wary of the world around him.

"Because I hate these commie bastards as much as you all do," Detective Gao replied. "First of all, the Weathermen killed one of my best friends on the force when they blew up a pipe bomb in the San Francisco police station, and we believe it's the Berkeley faction that was responsible even though not a single person on that fucking campus is willing to talk, and the FBI refuses to assist us. Secondly, my parents were born in Communist China and many members of my family were murdered by Mao Zedong's revolutionaries. They thought that as an American, I wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit and now all these attacks start happening right here at home. Yes, I'm a first generation American, but I appreciate and love this country a lot more than many people whose families have been here for much longer. And when I'm in here, I'm Ray, not Detective Gao."

This silenced the doubters in the room, and Lenny even nodded with grudging respect. "So what do you have for us, Ray?"

Ray opened his briefcase and spread out several copies of photos and police documents from various Bay Area police departments to the men gathered around the room. "Don't worry, I also made extra copies," he said, getting a chuckle out of Unser. "Keep in mind that I'm obviously not at liberty to discuss any of this, and that much of this intel comes from investigating that myself and my fellow officers have done off the clock without permission."

"Okay, as y'all are most likely aware, there's been an endless string of targeted violent attacks against current and former members of the military in the last year and there are several cells involved, but we believe the cell responsible for the most heinous ones including the Lodi bombing is led by Walt Rogers, a sociology professor at UC-Berkeley. We ran Wayne's pictures of the missing protesters against our records and they're known associates of several leading Weathermen, including the ones I'm about to show you right now."

Ray placed Professor Rogers's picture on the bulletin board in the room right next to the table. "We believe Rogers radicalized and/or recruited a number of his students into the Weather Underground in the past few years including those we believe to be the chief architects of the Lodi bombing. Comrade Jimmy's real name is James Nelms and we believe he personally detonated the bomb. We also have Deanna Lunsik, an engineering student who we suspect is their explosives expert. She has family in the Charming area and we believe she also scouted targets around here for the attack. Her input is believed to have been crucial in their decision to target the credit union. Lastly, here's another top operative who attends the university under the name Antonio Garcia. He's a illegal alien with ties to Oakland gang members. Nelms and Garcia live in the campus dorms, while Lunsik lives several blocks from campus on university-owned property."

"So you can't just go guns blazing," Clay remarked, staring in hatred at the pictures on the bulletin board and spread out across the table. "That's where we come in?"

"Not just that," Ray told them, "Nelms and Lunsik's families are extremely politically connected. Nelms comes from old money in Boston, and Lunsik's father is a scientist at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. Nothing we charge them with is likely to stick in the courts. And there's another reason why I think you're right for the job."

"Please entertain us," Piney said. He was also interested in doing anything to get these bastards who had killed Otis Cross and cowardly attacked a VFW post of all places.

Ray carried on with his briefing. "The Weathermen buy their weapons from the Oakland charter of the Mayans motorcycle club, an outlaw biker gang whose members are mostly illegal immigrants like Antonio and he's the connection between them. The Mayans supply the Weathermen with guns for their operations. A lot of their smuggling business is obviously done along the border, but they also own several suspicious properties on the Oakland docks. In exchange, the Weathermen help the Mayans sell drugs on campus. You see, the UC Berkeley student body's one of the most lucrative markets for illegal drugs in the entire Bay Area, but the Mayans can't just dispatch their own people to peddle their own product like they do on the Oakland street corners. For all their progressive politics, the students and faculty wouldn't be too comfortable having that kind of socioeconomic and cultural diversity on campus."

"So they need some white college kids to do their dirty work," JT finished the thought for Ray. "No suspicions, and if they screw up and get caught, they just make one phone call to daddy and everything gets swept under the rug and it's business as usual all over again."

"Just how things work these days," Ray replied.

"The information you provided us was extremely helpful," Lenny said, "More than you probably even expected."

"We'll definitely look into it," JT said, "And if any additional information were to surface, be sure to pass it on to Unser here. That would be greatly appreciated."

SONS OF ANARCHY CLUBHOUSE, TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR

Unser also excused himself and left the room, leaving only JT and the others.

"I'm already starting to have a plan," Otto Moran said, looking around the table. "Me and Lenny have a friend in the Mayans. Now that we know they're the ones dealing with the Weathermen, we can milk that connection for our own benefit."

"And who would this friend be?" Clay asked curiously.

"With no disrespect to anyone here, I think it's best that we keep that confidential, at least for the time being," Lenny replied with a slight tone of authority.

"Can you at least tell us his motivations for helping us?" Piney followed up.

"That fact would best remain confidential as well," Wally told him.

"Wait a minute here," Clay interjected, "Y'all are saying you have this source that can help us, but you won't even tell us who the hell it is?" Keith was thinking the same thing, but kept his thoughts to himself given that he was still a newcomer in front of these guys. He compared it to meeting with the IRA leaders back in Northern Ireland. JT had the same kind of authority, Keith noticed. It wasn't the kind of brutal authority he saw in the IRA leaders, but a type of authority and respect nonetheless.

JT spoke up, and like always, Clay and Piney listened carefully to what he had to say. They seemed to gravitate toward him, just like they had in the Army. "I agree with Lenny here. Look, guys, we must not kid ourselves about what we're about to get into. We're going to be operating on the other side of the law against some very determined enemies. This may very well get ugly. We need to think of it like the way we used to in the Army. We're about to start this war now and we don't know when or how it's going to end. Let's say that hypothetically one or more of us gets kidnapped by either the Weathermen or the Mayans. They're going to torture us for information just like the commies did. The less we know, the better. We can't afford to risk compromising whatever sources we have."

"That does make sense," Clay conceded. Yes, JT certainly did have a point.

"I'll contact my source in the Mayans ASAP. Should be able to reach him within a couple days," Lenny told JT.

"I also believe getting revenge for Otis isn't enough," Clay added, "We need to send those bastards a message so strong they won't ever dare to fuck with us again. And we ain't gonna do that just being a bunch of gun-toting Charming hillbillies who know how to shoot a few guns. We need to do more than simply teach these people a lesson. We need to wipe them out!"

JT and Clay had discussed this in private and hinted for the other ones too. They were all bikers, and starting a new club, especially under these circumstances, was a logical next step.

JT looked around the table. "So you're also thinking about an organization, a club, giving ourselves a name that they'll learn to fear and respect. I wish it didn't come down to this, but I agree with you."

"We ride together, die together, like we've always said," Piney added. "Any ideas?"

JT nodded. "How about the Sons of Anarchy? The Weathermen, they want this revolution and chaos. The feds refuse to pursue justice or do anything about everything's that's been taking place. It's anarchy out there, and it's our enemies and the powers that be that created it. And it was this chaos and anarchy that gave rise to us and what we're about to do."

"I do like that," Piney replied, and around the table, they all nodded one by one. "Forming an outlaw MC. That's….we've always joked about it. I can't believe its for real. But if we're do to it, we need you at the head of the table."

JT looked hesitant for a moment. "I was thinking maybe we could all…."

"You've always been our leader, JT, and we're back on the battlefield," Clay told him. "You know how to fight this war better than any of us. And make no mistake, if those dirtbags who killed Otis want to run their fucking mouths in the newspapers about bringing the war home to us, we're going to show them and what war's really like."

"I accept, but I want to make everything clear here though. I don't want a single one of you to ever feel intimidated or afraid to voice your opinions. We need everyone's honest input if we're to survive this thing. The major decisions of this club have to be unanimous. And lastly, we're not a traditional MC like the Mayans. Those are all formed for the wrong reasons. The Sons of Anarchy will not be about running drugs or whorehouses. That's _not_ our vision and we need to make that very clear. We are about protecting our families and our town, and doing the right thing when nobody else is capable of doing so."

JUNE 1970

THE CLUBHOUSE

JT opened the double doors to the private room and all of the members filed in after them, taking their seats. By this time, all of them official positions within the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club were established. Piney was the Vice President, Clay was the Master at Arms, and Lenny, known as Lenny the Pimp because of what he did in New York, was the Secretary. Lenny and Otto had come to an amicable agreement with the Cacuzzas in that they could still call on them and their club for assistance if an extreme scenario ever arose, but allowed them to end their association. Not being of Italian descent was a double edged sword when it came to the Mafia. It meant they could never be a made man, but at the same time as an associate, they were free to distance themselves from the Mob the way a made man would never be allowed to do.

All of the men also wore leather kuttes with the Sons of Anarchy logos emblazoned on the back and their officer patches on the front as applicable.

JT nodded in Lenny's direction. "Lenny, you suggested that we call this special meeting today because you have some very actionable info for us. We're eager to hear it."

"My source inside the Mayans confirmed everything our friends in blue told us about that club's dealings with the Weathermen. The Weathermen are asking to more than triple the amount of cash, drugs, and weapons involved in their arrangement. The word on the street is that Comrade Jimmy's faction is planning more attacks and are ordering a tremendous amount of weapons."

"Jesus Christ," Clay cursed. "And you think they're going to hit Charming again?"

"That I don't know," Lenny replied, "But because of these high-stakes negotiations, the Weathermen have requested a meeting between their top operatives and senior members of the Mayans leadership. This meeting will take place at the Macy's parking garage of the Sunvalley Mall next Thursday afternoon. Comrade Jimmy will personally be there, as will Antonio Garcia, who's their liaison with the Mayans, plus Deanna Lunsik. As their weapons expert, she'll have to be there to confirm they really are getting bang for their buck. Our source has attended several past between the Mayans and the Weathermen, and if it's anything like before, the Weathermen will bring a large terrorist crew for security purposes."

"Large as in how many?" JT asked, his mind already spinning at the possibilities.

"Usually at least six of seven. For an important meeting like this, it's likely they'll bring even more, maybe close to a dozen in various locations. If we wipe out that many of them in one fell swoop as Clay suggested at our last meeting, we'll cripple the Weathermen once and for all as well as send the message we need."

"What about Professor Rogers? Is he going to be there?"

Lenny shook his head. "I don't think so. He's always dispatched his top lieutenants."

"No doubt the good professor always stays nice and insulated back in Berkeley. Gets his students to do all the dirty work for him. Fucking coward," commented Piney.

"Rogers inspired and directed this attack," JT said, "As much as I love to get all the bastards we can, he should be our top priority. And if he stays alive, he can brainwash some more of these impressionable students into joining his cause, and a few months, a few years from now we'll be right back where we started."

"There's no way to find out when he's going to together with the rest of his crew, and as we all know going into Berkeley with guns blazing is out of the question. He's protected by layers of cops and campus security and we're not about to shoot it out with law enforcement. JT, this is the best we've got right now, and a chance like this may never happen again," said Lenny.

JT sighed. "I guess we'll have to save Rogers for a different day, but you're right, this is going to cripple their organization _for now_. But what about the Mayans? We don't want to get ourselves in a war with them. They'll be pissed off enough when we take out their business partners leaving nobody to sell their drugs in Berkeley for the time being. If we kill any of their people, it's not going to turn out good for us."

"The Weathermen, being paranoid as they are, usually show up at least ten minutes early," Lenny informed the rest of the club. "We'll be there an hour before the meet to scout the area. If we're lucky, we'll hit them before the Mayans arrive on the scene. Or, we can ambush them on the way to the parking lot."

"Also, if I may," Keith spoke up for the first time in his thick Northern Irish accent. "Perhaps there _is_ a way to get Professor Rogers."

"What do you have in mind?" JT asked hopefully.

"It may add a few more challenges to the plan, but instead of killing all of the Weathermen on the spot, we can capture the girl alive and offer to make an exchange with Rogers. His life for hers."

"You think Rogers will negotiate for her? He probably thinks all of his operatives are expendable. For him to sacrifice his own life for Deanna?"

"The possibility is there, guys," Keith continued. "I've been around very committed terrorists my entire life. Maybe Deanna isn't expendable like the others. She's the expertise behind their weapons. Even Rogers himself can't entirely replace her. If Rogers is a true believer in his cause, he very well may be willing to sacrifice his own life for the future of his faction. Deanna is critical to the faction's future success."

"And if he doesn't negotiate?" Otto asked.

"Then we'll kill the terrorist bitch, like we had initially planned to anyway," Keith answered.

"I like that," JT said, a dark smirk forming on his face and he filled with determination. "Our second order of business while we're here, is the question of how we're going to procure weapons for this operation. My initial plan had been to hunt down these bastards one by one, but I like going with this idea of finishing as many of them off at once, but that would require more hardware."

"I should be able to get some military style weapons from the local militias," Lenny said. He indeed had many friends in the locally active militia groups, some of them would jump at the opportunity to support a fight against the Weather Underground's left wing terrorists. "Isaac Daniels comes to mind first. He's got a large arsenal of weapons that he can probably spare. I've known him for years. We can trust him. He may not want to be on the front lines like us, but he is sympathetic toward us. These weapons should get us through this operation. I honestly don't know about the future."

"If we succeed this time, we won't have to worry about the future," said Clay, "Once we wipe out their faction members and capture Deanna, our regular firepower should be more than enough to deal with Rogers. In fact that part's going to nice and personal, just a good ol' fashioned pistol or knife."

"I agree," JT said. I'm going to put this up for a vote now. Everyone in favor of attacking the Weathermen next Thursday and capturing Deanna Lunsik, say aye."

Each and every man around the table raised their hands and said "aye" quite loudly.

"Okay," JT said, "It's a go."


	10. Debts in Blood

_Author's Note: In regards to the Spanish words in the Mayans' conversation, all the dialogue among the Mayans is supposed to be completely in Spanish with subtitles if this was acted out on screen. I'm not a native Spanish speaker so pardon any mistakes (my user name comes from a character on 24). This is done by design as this is the generation before Marcus Alvarez and they are far less Americanized. This is analogous to how in the Godfather movies, the scenes involving the young Don Vito Corleone are all in Italian while the younger generation of the Corleone family speaks English with one another._

CHAPTER 10: DEBTS IN BLOOD

JUNE 16, 1970

MARTINEZ IMPORTS TRADING COMPANY, PORT OF OAKLAND

" _Escuchen hermanos_ , listen up, there has been a change in plans," Mayans Motorcycle Club Vice President Juan Martinez from the Oakland charter clapped his hands and announced to his assembled crew as he stepped into the dockside building owned by their club, one that was very lucrative for their smuggling operations. He had quickly called an impromptu meeting of both the patched members and prospects assigned to the deal with the Weathermen tomorrow.

" _Si?_ " replied Secretary Benito Chavarria. " _Como?"_

Juan hid his distaste for Benito. He noticed that Benito had often resorted to speaking shorter phrases in Spanish to avoid mixing English words in his sentences. Benito was one of the few club members who were born in America, and was too influenced by the gringos, he thought. At the same time, though, Benito was useful to their club in that he was one of the few who could serve as an interpreter for the others, most of whom were illegals who spoke very limited English.

"We are going to go to the mall thirty minutes before the meeting to make sure everything is secure. We will patrol the garages, the surrounding area, and also the inside of the mall to make sure it is all clear."

" _Por que? Es necesario? Frisco sabe?_ Is that really necessary? Does Frisco know of these plans?" asked Jorge Ramos, a patched Mayan biker, referring to their charter president.

 _"Por supuesto el sabe. Frisco esta de acuerdo con mi._ Of course he knows. He agrees with me," Juan replied.

"What are we looking for? Can the Weathermen not be trusted?" asked Jorge, "Antonio has always been fair with us."

"I appreciate the new business, but such an increase in orders is unusual even for them, and Frisco shares these concerns. We don't know if they have been compromised. Maybe _la policia_ , perhaps even the FBI and the CIA are onto the Weathermen and they want to take all of us down. They want to know who has been giving them these weapons. Yes, the Weathermen are loyal to their cause, but I do not think that loyalty is as strong as that of our brotherhood. We also do not know if the authorities have a case against them and are tracking their movements."

Jorge, Benito, and the others took this in and awaited their new orders.

JUNE 17, 1970

SUNVALLEY MALL, CONCORD, CONTRA COSTA COUNTY

JT felt a mix of nervousness and determination as he cruised west on California Delta Highway, also known as State Route 4, west into Contra Costa County. A little nervousness was good, JT had learned in the military. A soldier who didn't felt that was careless or had a hero complex and often got himself and others around him killed. He wondered if that was also what Otis felt as he rallied the others to rescue him from the communist enemy. Yet part of it was surreal. Instead of trekking through the jungle or approaching a hot landing zone under fire in a Huey, his entry to the battle zone was an uneventful hour and fifteen minute drive down country roads and then freeways past the billboards, fast food outlets and suburban ranch houses that were so quintessentially American. He and every other members of the club on this ride knew they faced possible death, and they knew to never underestimate the enemy. Yes, the Weathermen were a bunch of spoiled college kids, but that was also how some of the Vietcong started. It was also how many of Chairman Mao's Red Guards in China started out.

The Sunvalley Mall seemed brand new just like everything else in this part of Concord. If Charming was old Americana, Concord was the archetypical modern California suburb. The Mayans and Weathermen agreed on this location because Contra Costa County was neutral territory, away from the authorities that both sides suspected of tracking them on their home turf. Shortly after the vote approving the operation, JT, Piney and Clay had scouted the mall and the surrounding area, even getting multiple copies of the floor layout and surrounding parking facilities from the information booth to distribute to the other members.

Publicity for the operation was handled very delicately. They made a point to cruise through the streets of Charming wearing their new kuttes, as well as up Highway 99 all the way to Lodi, even circling the empty lot where the Armed Forces Credit Union used to stand. They also made another trip to Mt. Zion Cemetery to pay their respects to Otis once more. Unlike the Weather Underground, they had no plans to call in a claim of responsibility to the media. That would simply bring all the heat from law enforcement right back to them. Instead, they stopped at the Charming post office on their way out of town and mailed a letter with the club patch on it to Professor Rogers's campus address. Since Rogers was also operating on the other side of the law, he would most likely not involve the authorities. However, he would certainly get the message.

JT, Piney, Clay, and Keith came in their bikes, but Wally, Thomas, and Lenny arrived in two separate vehicles, a minivan and an ordinary gray colored work van. Having scouted the location, JT understood why the Mayans and Weathermen had agreed on this time and place. It was only about a third filled with vehicles, mostly concentrated in the several rows closest to the department store. This time of day, there would be enough shoppers around that there would be witnesses if either side attempted any backstabbing. It was also an ideal place for a third party to ambush them, JT decided. The parking area was actually a two story garage, with the upper level connected to the mall's sprawling main lot through a hillside and a lower level that felt like a traditional parking garage. The meet would take place on the exposed upper level given that the first floor was dark, had more cars and would offer too many hiding places.

"JT, looks like our guests are here. Early like promised."

But once again their enemies weren't expecting a third party, and the Sons used that to their full advantage. Wally, Thomas, and Lenny took a detour through the Macy's store and exited into the lower garage level.

SEARS DEPARTMENT STORE, SUNVALLEY MALL

 _"Nosotros amigos estan aqui._ Our friends are here," Benito noticed as he adjusted his binoculars and handed them to Jorge. _"Muy temprano._ Very early." The two of them were on a catwalk on the second floor of Sears, which was located in close proximity to Macy's and gave them a good vantage point to the meeting area. His fellow Mayan also glanced out and saw Comrade Jimmy's brand new 1970 Bentley convertible and Deanna's Mercury Marauder X-100 sports car pull onto the mall property from Contra Costa Boulevard, heading straight for the Macy's garage.

Jorge confirmed the sighting and rushed through the men's department into the mall entrance, ignoring several employees asking him if he needed assistance. Jorge wished he could use the stolen police radios the Mayans possessed, but they were not reprogrammed yet and he was afraid the cops were still tracking them. Jorge ran into Juan Martinez right after entering the mall from Sears.

"The Weathermen are here. Both me and Benito got a very careful look, they do not have any _policia_ or _federales_ trailing them. I personally saw Antonio get out of the vehicle with Comrade Jimmy. They brought a few more of those college punks, a few more than before. Other than that, everything is normal."

Juan looked behind him one last time and nodded. "We scouted this entire area. _Todo esta claro_. It is all clear. _Vamos_ , it is time for us to make some money."

MACY'S GARAGE – LOWER LEVEL

Lenny's radio buzzed with some static, then JT's voice came through. "Move in now, it's show time." Lenny nodded to Wally and Thomas and the three of them crossed a service roadway into the garage lower level. Wally pulled a Berretta out of his pocket as he approached the first Weatherman. The Weatherman's mouth opened in a gasp, but before any sound came out, Wally pulled the trigger, discharging a bullet straight into his open mouth. The other two terrorists were unable to respond because Thomas had taken them out with nearly simultaneous headshots.

MACY'S GARAGE - UPPER LEVEL

Comrade Jimmy had just started to glance around the area when he heard the loud gunshot. "What the fuck?" he said with an uneasy look on his face. He wondered if it was a car backfiring, with the sound magnified by the enclosed nature of the garage's lower level. It sounded like the bullets he had fired in practice, but then would there be multiple shots? Was this really a Mayan ambush? No, it couldn't be. They wouldn't be able to take down all three of their men at once…..

Lenny and Thomas emerged onto the upper level through one door, while Wally came through another. Thomas fired both of his Glocks while Lenny and Wally fired several shots into one of the clumps of Weathermen with their Berettas and Desert Eagles. The terrorist standing next to Jimmy took three bullets in the waist, toppling over and aiming his weapon at the door where Thomas was at. Thomas darted to the side and the terrorist's bullets whizzed by in a long stream, pocketing the wall in the stairwell. Thomas slid back into the doorway, well below the Weatherman's line of fire, and fired another killshot into the center of his chest.

"This is for Lodi!" Lenny screamed, firing several more shots before retreating back into the stairwell.

Jimmy saw his comrade fall to the ground dead. "Shit!"

He felt a wave of panic rush through him, and he saw the same look in Deanna's eyes. So these guys weren't Mayans. They were Central Valley rednecks, their worst nightmares, and they could definitely handle their guns. "Deanna, take cover! Everyone, suppress their fire and assess the clearest way out of here!"

His panic soon boiled into a rage, however. These gun-toting degenerates would _not_ defeat him. So they were trained? He and his men also had over a year of paramilitary training on their secluded Weathermen controlled properties. He would fight back, he and his team would get out of here. They would find out who the hell these people were and then the Weathermen would destroy them the way Vladimir Lenin defeated his enemies and preserved the Soviet Revolution.

"Suck my dick, you goddamn bastard! Fuck you!" Jimmy screamed in a blinded rage, unleashing a volley of gunfire from his East German-made SKS semiautomatic carbine. Wally also stuck his weapon out, firing on full automatic, sending bullets flying toward the Weathermen. Most of the terrorists took cover but some of them fought back as their comrades reloaded. Antonio tried to return fire, but before he could, he was hit once in the lower leg, cursing in Spanish as he hid behind a row of parked cars. The gunfire from the Sons continued on full automatic, bullets slamming into tires causing them to flatten while others bounced off hubcaps with deafening sounds.

"Keith, fire now!" JT said as he, Clay, and Piney revved the engines on their motorcycles and drove from the main parking lot toward the upper garage level. "Remember, we need the girl alive if possible!"

Keith opened the doors to the minivan and removed a rocket propelled grenade launcher, quickly bringing it to shoulder level. After all, explosives had been his expertise in Northern Ireland's black market, and he had already demonstrated this particular model for the Irish Kings several times. Keith's first high-explosive grenade sailed smoothly from the launcher, leaving behind a white contrail as Keith prepared to fire again.

The rocket landed on a green sedan, vaporizing two Weathermen firing at Thomas from next to it. Keith followed up with three more grenades, being careful to aim away from where Deanna was preparing her own gun. "That crazy, bloody ass bitch," Keith mouthed. Maybe this won't be as easy as they had expected.

An RPG round landed on the concrete surface of the garage, sending a Weatherman flying through the air dead. Another impacted more cars, igniting more explosions and sending flaming wreckage raining down over a large area of the garage. One of these pieces cut through a terrorist decapitating him while several landed around Antonio, causing him to catch fire. The white hot flames quickly engulfed Antonio. He screamed for his comrades to shoot him and put him out of misery, but they were all too busy engaging the bikers. The shoppers in the area were now screaming and desperately running for their lives, leaving shopping bags and personal belongings in their wake.

Thomas saw Jimmy and fired his MP5 again but missed. He saw Jimmy bring his gun around and aim. A round struck Thomas in the arm and he felt a sudden burning pain. Several pieces of his flesh hung loose. "I been hit, dammit!" he radioed JT, retreating back, "Fuck!"

"We're on our way!" JT radioed. Four Weathermen emerged on the lower level, spraying heavy automatic weapons and pistol fire on the approaching bikers. Clay dodged to the right, opening fire with his assault rifle, shooting down one, then a second terrorist as they charged out of the garage. The clip was empty on the MP-5 strapped around JT's shoulder, so he took his sidearm, another Glock 9mm pistol and fired. Another Weatherman dropped to the ground. Piney squeezed off a burst with his M-16 rifle, shooting the fourth Weatherman through the neck, the hostile clutching his neck in agony for a few seconds before joining his dead comrades on the pavement.

Wally fired a shot that hit Jimmy in the lower abdomen, the faction leader doubling over in pain as bright red blood seeped through his shirt. Another Weathermen hurled a hand grenade straight at the stairwell.

"Run! Run!" Lenny yelled and grabbed Wally, the two of them running down back to the first level. The force of the blast sent chunks of concrete falling down all over the parked vehicles underneath and propelled the metal door like a missile that shot over Wally's head with only a few inches to spare before lodging itself in the engine block of a car.

Jimmy tasted the blood in his throat and knew he had been hit worse than he expected. So this is what dying feels like, he thought. "Deanna….Deanna!" he said, his voice still loud as he leaned again a cement wall.

Deanna tried to remove Jimmy's shirt to look at his wound despite having no medical training whatsoever.

Jimmy still managed to struggle to his feet despite the pain. "It's over for me, sweetheart."

"No, Jimmy!" Deanna said, grief mixing with fear as bullets continued whizzing by as three surviving Weathermen fired back at the bikers. It was obvious they had gotten far more than they had bargained for. Cowardly detonating a bomb was one thing. Now they were actually shooting it out with trained former military guys.

"I'm proud to go down like this for a higher purpose, unlike some old man who's lived a meaningless life," Jimmy said, giving her a quick kiss. "You take a couple guys and retreat, go through the mall. The rest of us will send as many of these hillbilly motherfuckers to hell as possible. You're more valuable to our cause than I am. Professor Rogers still needs you. Don't argue with me, Deanna, go get the hell out of here!"

Deanna nodded tearfully and took off across the parking lot, several Weathermen providing cover fire for her. "I'm so proud of you, Jimmy, and I know your family will be too."

Comrade Jimmy limped forward, taking aim at the lead approaching bike which was ridden by JT. His eyes were blurring over from the pain, but he could still see the image of the Harley getting larger and larger. JT saw the muzzle flashing on Jimmy's gun as dozens of bullets came toward him, bouncing off the pavement. A few even hit the handlebars as the bikers approached in a zigzagging pattern. Jimmy turned his attention to Piney, but Piney ducked low, and Jimmy's stream of bullets only hit a few car windows and trees. JT saw another Weatherman take a firing position in the corner of his eye. He turned his MP5 to the right and cut the man down in a furious blaze of gunfire. JT was now almost upon Jimmy, who opened fire again. JT shot another burst that riddled Jimmy's chest with bullets.

JT dismounted his bike and stepped forward. At this point, Jimmy could no longer speak through the pain and the blood filling up his lungs. He mumbled incoherently and stared up at JT with defiant eyes.

"You wanted to bring the war here, you piece of shit? Well this is what we did to those commie bastards in Vietnam, and your Professor Rogers will be next. Oh yes, we know all about him, and we're going to make him pay too!" JT made sure Comrade Jimmy understood he had failed not just his cause, but Rogers personally. With that, JT killed Jimmy with a shot to the forehead.

SEARS DEPARTMENT STORE

" _Madre de Dios!"_ Jorge gasped at the events quickly transpiring below them. " _Quien son?_ Who the hell are these people?" The shock wave from the RPGs had shattered the entire glass façade of Sears as well as the glass beneath the stainless steel railing of the catwalk.

"I don't know but this is _loco_ ," replied Benito. "Antonio is dead! Half of them are dead! Shit!"

"It's time for us to get the fuck out of here!" Jorge said. For all the violence he had witnessed and personally dealt out throughout his life, he had never seen anything like this. This wasn't a gangland attack, not even a professional Mafia-style hit. This was war, pure and simple. This must be how things are in that Vietnam place that the Americans were always talking about.

" _Un momento,_ Jorge," Benito said, " _Mira!_ It is that Deanna girl, they are trying to make a run for it."

"She is _muy importante,_ " Jorge said, making a judgment call on the spot. "She is the one who knows the weapons. We need her alive if our business relationship is to continue, and the Weathermen will also be indebted to us for saving her. If we let all of our partners get killed like that, it will hurt our reputation and nobody will want to do business with us again. I know this is what Juan would want."

 _"Si,"_ Benito replied simply then removed a high powered sniper rifle and several shotguns from the tote bag they were carrying. He wanted to point out that they should have never joined the battle anyway, since they were technically not supposed to even be at the mall yet. But like so many things this day, it was too late. They were already in the fray, and had to do whatever it took to get out.

MACY'S PARKING GARAGE

By now, Keith had put away his rocket launcher and replaced them with his pair of binoculars. First he glanced down Contra Costa Boulevard. Sure enough, he saw the flashing lights of police cars, fire engines, and ambulances approaching the scene but they were still quite a long way off, still too far away for the sirens to be heard. He then glanced back at the garage, where over a dozen cars were burning with smoke rising into the sky.

"JT, everyone, the law's approaching, it would still take them at least a few minutes to get here," he radioed, "Wait….shit, the girl's making a run for it. She's got three Weathermen escorting her, they're headed into the store. Repeat, they're headed into Macy's!"

"We got it. How much resistance is left outside?" Piney asked.

"Two hostiles, they're approaching your position from the right!"

"Okay," JT said, "We're going to have to ditch the bikes. As much as I'd love to pursue them on wheels there's too many witnesses. Get these bikes back on the van and maintain contact with us for rendezvous. We're going after Deanna right now. She may be injured and she probably doesn't know this place the way we do. We should have a fair shot at this."

"Motherfuckers!" a terrorist screamed as they got off their bikes, squeezing one burst after another with an AK-47 as he ran along the sidewalk next to Macy's. Piney aimed with his Glock and fired. A single bullet went through the Weatherman's heart, sending him falling sideways onto a strip of grass planted next to the building. They were almost to the entrance now. The last Weatherman outside popped up from behind the trunk of a car and fired a few bullets in their direction.

JT quickly turned to the men next to him. "Clay, can you handle all the bastards left out here? We gotta go in pursuit now before that bitch gets away!"

"You bet I fucking got it! Go!"

Clay reloaded and took shelter behind a Buick convertible. The Weatherman fired again, his bullets tearing holes through the Buick's tarp. Clay could tell his enemy was scared and feeling helpless. The Weatherman ran out of bullets on one clip and fired his other gun, but was afraid to stop firing both weapons long enough to fully reload. It would probably have behooved him to just take a few seconds, reload and make sure that his aim was right. But he was only a radicalized Berkeley student with poor tactical training, and besides his comrades were too dead to cover him now.

Clay aimed through one of the holes in the tarp and squeezed off short bursts of fire. He saw a red puff and pieces of flesh flying as his gunfire impacted the Weatherman's chest. The hostile fell down, his body jerking around for a few seconds before becoming still. Yet another bullet, one with a very different caliber, whizzed through Clay's hair. Shit.

Clay saw a flash, then another come from the Sears catwalk. There were more hostiles up there covering Deanna's escape into the mall.

SEARS DEPARTMENT STORE

"I got the one on the bike. You aim for the one in the van!" Jorge told Benito. He barked several instructions in Spanish, ordering several Mayans into the main part of the mall to secure Deanna, assist the surviving Weathermen and make contact with Juan.

Benito aimed at the van, striking it twice but narrowly missing Keith.

"Bloody hell," Keith cursed in a particularly Northern Irish way. He put down the binoculars and brought the RPG back out of the van. "Look out, Clay, I'm going to take them out with an RPG round but get their attention!"

Clay stepped back out and opened up with his machine gun.

 _"_ Fuck! _Puta de madre!_ " Benito exclaimed as the bullets struck everything around him, including one that grazed his shoulder, sending a moderate about of blood flowing out of the wound. It was then that they saw the contrail of the RPG Keith had just fired.

"Take cover! _Ahora!_ " Jorge screamed, yanking Benito's arm as the two of them retreated from their position, diving behind a rack of business suits as the rocket propelled grenade flew through the broken glass. The explosive warhead impacted the ceiling of the adjacent women's handbags department, blowing a hole through the roof and sending parts of the ventilation system crashing down onto the merchandise and display cases. The entire store shook for several seconds. Many customers and employees who had not heard the battle outside thought it was a minor earthquake, quickly taking cover behind the counters and flattening themselves on the floor.

MALL INTERIOR –SEARS CONCOURSE

 _"Como esta la pierna? Esta bien?_ What happened to the arm?" Juan asked Benito as he and Jorge came out of Sears and into one of the mall's main concourses coughing from their smoke inhalation.

"I'll survive, Juan. Who the fuck are these people?"

"Nobody knows but we will find out!" Juan told him, "Whoever they are, they are chasing Deanna and the rest of the Weathermen toward the central atrium. We must head there now! _Rapido! Arriba!"_ The Mayans ran past clumps of shoppers who gasped at the weapons they were waving around.

SUNVALLEY MALL CENTRAL ATRIUM

Deanna was bleeding from several wounds caused by flying glass during the gun battle outside. She couldn't believe it had come to this. Her boyfriend was dead. So many of her comrades were dead, all massacred by these Charming bikers in a matter of minutes.

The Weatherman accompanying her nudged and pulled on her. "C'mon Deanna, I know you're hurt but we gotta move faster! More of those fuckers are gonna be here anytime!"

Deanna forced herself to ignore the pain of her wounds and catch up with her comrade. Suddenly, her world once again in the rattling of automatic weapons first, but this was coming from the second floor of the central atrium up ahead, and rather than feeling bullets slam into her again, Deanna saw that it was aimed squarely behind her at the pursuing bikers. She heard several screams behind her and saw two shoppers clutching their wounds at they fell to the ground, blood clearly visible on the gleaming white floor. It was then that she heard the new set of gunmen shouting to each other in rapid Spanish. It must be the Mayans, she saw, also here for the party. She remembered meeting their VP at a previous weapons deal.

"Come, Deanna! _Vamo! Rapido!_ " Juan shouted from the top as several more Mayans arrived with various models of submachine guns and assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Most of them weren't wearing their biker kuttes, afraid of recognition in such a public place. They looked more like a regular street gang than an outlaw motorcycle club.

"Goddamn it! Motherfucker!" Clay cursed as bullets came at them from both directly in front and from an elevated position the moment he caught up with JT and Piney in the mall's large central atrium containing a glass elevator, several fountains, vendor carts and large indoor potted plants. There were two gunmen engaging them from the second floor of the atrium, spaced evenly out across the expanse of the atrium.

"Everyone take cover! Stay down!" JT screamed as he reloaded and fired upward before dodging several long bursts. "Dammit!"

JT saw a young shopper panic and try to make a run for it. She was immediately cut down by the Mayans' furious gunfire, as was a worker from a Tower Records store.

" _Tu mierda!"_ Piney heard Juan curse as the Mayan reloaded and sent another stream of bullets flying in their direction.

"Look, we need to take out the two men above us and outflank the rest!" Through the edge of his field of vision, JT could see Deanna running away, but he knew that right now, getting himself and his brothers out alive was all that mattered.

JT made a run for it as three Mayans all opened fire on him. He paused briefly behind a mall information kiosk, the display shattering into hundreds of pieces and the lighting inside flickering in sparks. Despite this, there was metal inside the kiosk that deflected the gunfire. Piney fired back, shooting one of the Weathermen in the head before he went into Tower Records, tripping over a shelf and sending records tumbling onto the floor.

JT now saw one of the Mayans in his line of fire and took the shot, watching the man fall dead.

"JT there's too many of them!" Piney shouted as he took cover behind the shaft of the glass elevator. "I need backup now!" At least two Mayans were firing at Piney from the upper floor. It was clear that without JT's quick intervention, Piney would be shot dead the moment he emerged from behind the elevator shaft, and he couldn't stay there forever.

Piney reloaded but couldn't get a straight shot. Neither could the other Sons. In the distance, he saw Deanna and a Weather Underground terrorist go into the Montgomery Ward department store down the end of another long concourse. It was no longer about capturing her though. Now it was about him, JT, and the other club members getting out of here alive. Despite not having a clear visual on where any of the Mayans were shooting from, Piney raised his gun and fired two bullets in the direction of the automatic weapons fire without leaving his covered position. He closed his eyes as another AK-47 round slammed into the wall next to him sending pieces of stone and marble flying toward him.

"I'm going to draw some fire!" JT shouted as he got up off the floor. "I got two more magazines in my Carbine! The moment those bastards come, take them out!" They had wanted to avoid this battle with the Mayans, but were left with no choice. They had no way of predicting that Juan Martinez and his crew would show up to the meet this early, and this was certainly no time to try explaining themselves. They didn't have their radios now and JT had to shout, knowing that most likely the Mayan gunmen couldn't understand any English.

"Juan! Juan! _La policia_ will be here soon!" Benito urged his leader, "The bombmaker is safely away! We must get the hell out of here because those motherfuckers show up."

However, Juan was one floor below, by the fountain area now, and couldn't hear him over the sound of the gunfire two more Mayans were spraying into the atrium below. JT came out of the record store with his Carbine blasting on full auto, aiming at the Mayans above. The first Mayan took an entire round in the chest, falling down into the plastic tables below. This gave Piney and Lenny the respite they needed to engage the remaining man at the top.

" _Vamo! Vamo!"_ Benito urged the others to flee the scene before the police swarmed the mall. Lenny got the second Mayan shooter in his crosshairs and shot him down, the man falling from the second floor into the fountain below with a bright red splash.

Juan flattened himself behind a large pot containing one of the indoor palm trees and fired with his East German submachine gun. A round slammed into Thomas's leg, the biker falling down in pain. Both Piney and JT turned their attention in Juan's direction and opened up, their bullets riddling the palm tree enough times that it fell over.

Juan saw Lenny writhing around in pain. He didn't know who these gringos were, but he was going to put them down. Before he could make the kill shot, though, he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder as several shots fired by Piney went into him. The shock of the gunshot caused Juan to drop his weapon, but another Mayan took his place as he reached for his weapon again.

"Keep firing him from this position. I am going to surprise them from below while you have them pinned down!" Juan ordered, trying to ignore his wound. "We will finish off these _hueyputas!"_

 _"Si jefe!"_ the Mayan subordinate said with determination, "You can count on me." He fed another full magazine into his gun and returned to his firing position. He didn't see where the Charming bikers were but it didn't matter. He just needed to keep them occupied until Juan could ambush them.

"Okay we got one man remaining, we take him out and we're home free!" JT called out to Piney, who nodded. "We're going to advance one at a time." _If only I had a fucking grenade right now_ , JT told himself as he thought of how they flushed out the commies in the jungle.

"Got it!" Piney shouted back. The two bikers stepped to opposite sides of the concourse , hiding behind more pots and vendors carts and "prize" vehicles parked down the middle. JT's ears rang as Juan fired a trail of bullets that hit the wall right next to his ear sending plaster flying all around him. More bullets tore apart the indoor plants that dotted the atrium. He had no idea how these Mayans were able to acquire the firepower of a small army.

"Go that way!" JT pointed to the left as they both opened fire simultaneously on the shooter's position. The Mayan gunman moved to the side as the bullets slammed across the glass portion of the catwalk and took cover behind a concrete ledge on the second floor still overlooking the atrium. JT then concentrated his fire directly on the ledge, which offered none of the protection the Mayan thought it did when it came to high caliber bullets. JT's gunfire passed through his body over ten times, and the gunman slumped over on the ground dead.

There was near silence for a few seconds as JT and Piney took in the aftermath of what had just happened. Several storefronts were completely shattered by gunfire, and bullets pocketed the elevator doors, dining tables, chairs and walls with hundreds of spent shell casings scattered across the atrium floor. Piney suddenly nudged JT and turned toward the escalator, where they saw another Mexican man who looked like a gangster coming down toward them. His weapon was behind him, but JT saw the strap on his shoulder, something a civilian would probably have missed.

"Hold it right there, motherfucker!" Piney shouted, training his weapon on Juan Martinez. "It's over, _amigo_!"

"Put your hands in the air where we can see them or you'll be joining your brothers real soon!" JT also yelled as they took several steps forward. "Do not touch your weapon! Take it by the strap and throw it down to the ground!"

Juan seemed to comply, then his hands made a quick movement toward the AK-47 strapped around his shoulder. JT and then Piney quickly squeezed their triggers, hitting Juan all over his chest and groin area, and continued firing until his body tumbled all the way down to the bottom of the escalator.

CONCORD STREETS

With no time to waste, they helped Lenny to his feet and went into a service corridor, Piney radioing their position to Keith so they could move the vehicles to an alternative pickup point. By this time, the rest of the gang had already managed to load all their bikes into the other vehicle as well. JT, Piney, and Thomas closed the door to Keith's van and it sped off less than forty seconds before several police cars sped past them heading in the opposite direction toward one of the major mall entrances. JT looked in the rearview mirror and saw some officers taking up defensive positions while others entered the mall with their guns drawn as civilians continued to rush out.

"Keith, slow down!" Piney told. "I think we're in the clear now but we don't want to draw any attention to ourselves. The cops are going to be looking for any reason they can to search vehicles after all the shit that just went down."

"Thomas, how you doing? JT asked with concern as the van left Contra Costa Boulevard and entered the on-ramp for southbound Interstate 680 toward Walnut Creek. With several wounded, the Sons wanted to go back the way they came, but couldn't risk police checks in case anyone suspected their organization was the one involved. Instead, they were taking the detour through Walnut Creek via Ygnacio Valley Road heading east.

"Fuck, man!" JT managed to say, gritting his teeth.

"He's lost some blood but we should be able to stabilize him," said Wally, who had some medic training in the Army.

"How much longer we got?" Thomas asked.

"About an hour," JT replied honestly, "You'll survive, I know. Wally here's seen much worse over there, I'm sure you know that."

"Here," Lenny said, taking out a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon that he had already drank from as his own wounds were being bandaged. "This might help with the ride, buddy."

Thomas forced a smile. "Give it to me," he said, quickly opening the bottle and taking a long swig, then several more until he passed out in the van's backseat.

MAYANS OAKLAND CHAPTER CLUBHOUSE – PLAZA MAYA MEXICAN RESTAURANT AND CANTINA

Benito Chavarria rode his motorcycle through Oakland's inner city streets in record time, running at least five red lights and doing at least twenty above the speed limit the entire way. Despite this, not a single driver honked or cursed at him, because these were his streets, and the kutte he was wearing again demanded respect. Benito only had four other bikes following him, making him feel exposed. He knew there were probably another two or three of his crew left, including Jorge who was to return to the clubhouse separately with Deanna, but over half of his team had been killed in the confrontation with this previously unknown MC.

It had to be some mistake, he kept telling himself as they fled the Sunvalley Mall. But every time Benito looked back and saw what was left of the Mayan crew that had gone to the meet, he had to face the facts. This was the deadliest day in the Oakland charter's history, and also the deadliest day in the history of the entire Mayans MC on this side of the border.

Benito finally screeched his Mazda bike to a halt in the parking lot of the Plaza Maya Mexican Restaurant and Cantina, located in the heart of one of Oakland's most notorious Mexican barrios. The sprawling building was designed with a more traditional Mexican look with stucco walls and a red tiled roof than anything based on ancient Mayan architecture.

This was a neighborhood where gunshots rang out every night and non-Mexicans seen on the streets were questioned, accosted and eventually convinced to leave by the Mayan bikers who clearly had more authority here than the Oakland Police Department. A large percentage of the barrio's population was illegal and thus afraid to make any contact with American law enforcement anyway. The Oakland PD, for their part, turned a blind eye on the Mayans as long as they kept the more violent gangs in check.

"What up, _ese_?" one of the guards wearing a Mayan prospect jacket with a Mexican flag pin said in Spanish. His name was Oscar Santana, one of the young street thugs they had recently recruited. "Looks like you really in a hurry, man. Everything alright?" Benito typically parked on the secure lot out back that was ringed with barbed wire fencing. That was also the quickest access to the Mayans clubhouse, but Benito knew it was not where his President was right now. Benito trembled at the news he was about to deliver, but just wanted to get it out of the way and deal with the outrage.

Benito barely made eye contact with Oscar as he locked up his bike and walked rapidly to the door. " _Necesito hablar con Frisco ahora. Es muy importante._ I must speak to Frisco now," Benito told him, referring to Francisco "Frisco" Martinez, the leader of the Mayans Oakland charter. The prospect opened the door for Benito and ushered him in.

The Plaza Maya was a nightclub, strip joint, bar, and liquor wholesaler all in one large building. Unofficially, the private rooms within the strip club area also served as a brothel. The prospects and several Mayans followed Benito as he made his way through the bar area, where several bikers were playing a game of pool and drinking tequilas and margaritas as Mexican norteno music blared through the speakers. Several strippers were dancing on a large stage to the music while a handful of customers watched their performance, chugging Pacifico and Dos Equis beers and shouting obscene sexual remarks in Spanish toward the stage.

Benito immediately went into the back offices and opened up the door to Frisco's private suite. Sure enough, Frisco was being entertained by two prostitutes right in the middle of his gaudily decorated office with a large bottle of tequila on his desk as pulsating salsa music blared from a boom box set high on a shelf.

"It's an emergency, Frisco. We must speak now!" Benito exclaimed with the most pained expression on his face that his boss had ever seen.

" _Que?_ You cannot even wait until…."

 _"No, por favor, patron._ I swear it cannot wait."

Frisco sighed and slapped each hooker hard on the behind, then stuffed some cash into their bras. " _Hasta luego_ , _putas."_ Frisco waited until both hookers had left the room and their rapid chatting disappeared down the hall.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, _jefe, but…._ " Benito began, trembling.

"What is it, Benito? What do you have to tell me?"

" _Tu hermano esta muerto._ Your brother is dead."


	11. All About Who You Know

_Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in updates, real life has just been very hectic the past few months but I definitely haven't forgotten this story or my two upcoming ones which will be Sons of Anarchy-24 crossovers where Jax Teller and Jack Bauer appear together. One will be a modern day thriller dealing with Islamic terrorism and border issues while the other will be a sequel to the real 24._

CHAPTER 11: ALL ABOUT WHO YOU KNOW

WALNUT CREEK, CONTRA COSTA COUNTY

Just in case any witnesses led the authorities to believe the Sons from Charming were involved in what went down at the Sunvalley Mall, JT decided to take the detour south through Walnut Creek instead of heading directly east despite the injuries Lenny and Thomas had suffered. The tires squealed and the van tilted slightly as Keith, who was at the wheel, left Interstate 680 at the exit for Ygnacio Valley Road, which they would follow east in order to avoid the congestion and law enforcement activity in Concord and Pittsburg.

Several drivers honked at them as the Sons' vehicles sped down the wide suburban thoroughfare. Keith was still panting from the adrenaline that coursed through his body due to the action they had all just seen.

JT squeezed him on the shoulder. "Ease up on the gas there, Keith."

Keith turned as if to remind JT about their wounded brothers.

"They're stabilized right now," JT reassured Keith. "They'll make it. I know it's an hour to our destination, but they'll be able to hang in there. I doubt any of us wants the cops to pull us over and drag us to jail."

Keith nodded and slowed down on the accelerator to just 5 miles above the speed limit. It seemed in San Joaquin County, one could safely drive 10 above without being pulled over, but they were unfamiliar with Contra Costa County where the local police might enforce the speed limit more strictly. Besides, their vehicles were already older compared to the newer sedans and station wagons that seemed to dominate the traffic in this middle class Bay Area suburb.

"What the fuck was that? Those Mexicans weren't supposed to be there for another half hour or so. Goddammit!" Clay yelled, punching the wall of the van so hard that he left a dent in the metal.

"Look, I don't know what the hell's going on, but we need to stay calm, brother," JT said, taking a deep breath to stop panting. His nerves were also shot, and he worried about the conditions of his injured men and about the police dragnet that was being cast at this very moment. He could only hope that these suburban cops really were pretty unprepared for this kind of event compared to their counterparts in the cities.

"There must be some trust issues among the Mayans too," Piney said, "That's the only explanation I got. Are you sure we're still going to, I mean..."

"Yes, we stick to the plan, Piney, everyone," JT responded. "I don't think we have any better options right now. We follow through with the arrangements Thomas and Wally made, lay low for a while, and above all not draw any attention to ourselves."

He knew there would be some kind of response from the Mayans, no question about that, but that would have to wait until the dust settled. Right now, they needed to get as far the hell away from this place as they could.

JT turned up the dial on the radio and sure enough the regular sports updates was interrupted for breaking news. "In what can only be described as a scene out of a war zone, a peaceful afternoon of shopping was shattered at the Sunvalley Mall in Concord as suspected members of outlaw biker gangs opened fire on one another with automatic weapons and rocket propelled grenades. As of now 12 people, including 2 bystanders have been confirmed dead, though the death toll is expected to rise as police perform a full sweep of the crime scene which covers the entire food court area, parts of the Sears department store..."

He switched to another station. "Inner city violence shattered the calm of a suburban afternoon in Contra Costa County as…..conflicting reports also claim that one of the parties at the shootout are suspected members of the Weather Underground terrorist organization….reports from the scene describe large scale destruction throughout the building and a chaotic scene as shoppers desperately try to escape the violence. Northern California is already on edge following the Weather Underground bombing of the Armed Forces Credit Union in Lodi, and if the Weathermen was one of the parties responsible for what happened today this may be a terrorist in additional to a criminal investigation."

"Police have set up a number of roadblocks throughout the Concord and on major highways heading into Oakland but have not yet released any pictures or descriptions of any suspects they may be actively seeking…."

JT turned the radio off and checked his map again. They were in the clear for now."Keith, remember, no more than 5 miles above, or at least go with the flow. If everyone around is slowing down in a certain stretch, it's cause they're from there and they know something we don't."

Keith nodded and responded in his Northern Irish accent. "Aye, mate."

It was time, though, to make sure some of their enemies weren't. "I hope Wayne Unser can deliver on his part," JT said.

"He better," Clay said.

ORINDA BART (BAY AREA RAPID TRANSIT) STATION, ORINDA

Despite the news reports, there _were_ a small number of cops who knew the Mayans would be involved including of course Wayne Unser. So far, all he got from the Sons was that Weathermen leader Jimmy Nelms, aka Comrade Jimmy had been shot dead by JT personally at the mall. The Mayan involvement had taken him by surprise, but they were still in control of the situation. And the moment Unser knew about the Deanna's escape, he was able to contact friends he knew in the Alameda County police. The distance between Concord and the core of the Bay Area bought them some time.

The Orinda station, on the BART's Yellow line, was an above-ground station located in the media of State Route 24, a busy multi-lane freeway connecting Oakland with its eastern suburbs. As such it was a perfect vantage point for Unser. He most definitely didn't expect the Mayans to take any alternative routes. The Mayans, like most street thugs, were mostly cocky, over-confident and lacked actual intelligence. After all, smart people didn't join gangs, especially if they were already illegal aliens living on the wrong side of the law. Unser scanned the westbound lanes for any of the vehicles, particularly larger ones that the Mayans can transport their bikes on. He also had other men stationed at other vantage points on the major approaches to Oakland and Berkeley.

During the weeks when the Sons were preparing their assault, Unser had enlisted Detective Ray Gao's help in compiling a list of bikes and other vehicles suspected to be owned by the Mayans, who also operated in some San Francisco neighborhoods, and gotten in contact with his friends in the Alameda County police who were also sympathetic to his off the clock activities. Initially, this had been to identify the Mayans showing up at the meet. Sure enough, he saw several bikes coming in front of the east and zoomed in on his binoculars. He could see that although they weren't wearing their kuttes, they were Hispanic and rode the Suzuki and Mazda bikes favored by that club. The clincher was that he saw one of them with a bloodied blonde female on the bike. That must be the Weather Underground bombmaker.

His friends in the other departments ensured that there would be no jurisdictional issues given he was operating outside of Charming city limits.

Unser rushed past several commuters waiting on the platform to the Pacific Bell payphone next to the escalators. The call went to the car phone of an officer parked across the Alameda County line, less than five miles from Orinda.

"Wayne, you got something for me?" the officer asked.

"It's confirmed, I count three bikes westbound on the 24 here in Orinda, they're headed straight for the Caldecott Tunnel."

"Alright, my guys are ready," his contact replied, "Follow them in case we need backup. We're meeting them on the other side of the tunnel as planned."

OAKLAND

"Shit, where are we? How much longer?" Deanna groaned as they hit another bump on the pavement. Jorge Ramos had accelerated the bike again to cut off a dump truck as they approached the Caldecott Tunnel.

"We are almost at the tunnel now! Still on Route 24." Ramos, who spent almost all his time in Oakland, rarely took this route and didn't even know the name of the tunnel. "We should be on College Avenue in less than 15 minutes," Jorge replied.

She was honestly surprised that these Mexicans had helped extricate her from the situation with the Sons at the mall, and were even escorting her back to Berkeley, even though she gave the location of a friend's house near the campus rather than an actual Weather Underground safehouse. She was sure these Mexican bikers wanted something, even if its the business relationship. She certainly hoped they weren't trying to re-negotiate their deal with Professor Rogers, especially with their go-between Antonio Garcia among the dead in Concord. Antonio had lived the experience of illegal immigration and growing up on the barrio's lawless streets. This fact alone helped him gain the trust and respect of the Mayans, something the Weathermen would have to now do on their own.

Jorge's intention was obviously to not be stuck behind that massive, slow moving dump truck in the tunnel, where changing lanes was both illegal and difficult. However as the pain from the pothole shot through Deanna's body, she wished he had just taken it easy. Neither them nor any of the other Mayan bikes, one in front and two behind, pay any attention to the green Ford F-100 pickup truck driven by Unser that passed several vehicles until they were only 3 cars behind the Mayan convoy.

Unser hung up the car phone as they entered the tunnel, knowing the telephone reception was nonexistent under the Berkeley Hills anyway. Besides, the plan was already set. He considered taking Bore 3, the tunnel of the left, but decided against it when it was clear the Mayans really were paying no attention to them. After all, his target wasn't a KGB agent looking to evade an FBI tail. They were simple gangsters from Oakland who only cared about rival gangs and cops, and no undercover cop would typically drive that pickup truck. While westbound traffic was light in contrast to the bumper to bumper gridlock coming out of Oakland, he couldn't risk losing the Mayans in case some unforeseen delay happened in the tunnel.

Unser squinted in the glare of the sun in the western sky as they suddenly emerged on the west end into Hiller Highlands, one of Oakland's few middle class neighborhoods. He followed them for a few minutes past the next exit where his Alameda County contacts entered the highway. Unser changed into the fast lane and accelerated, speeding past the Mayans without looking at them. A car length ahead, he changed back into the right lane, seeing the lead bike in the rearview mirror. Without warning, Unser slammed on the brakes hard.

Unser braced for the impact as the truck screeched to a halt, something the lead Mayan wasn't able to do. The lead bike rear ended the back of the pickup truck at over 50 mph, sending the biker slamming into the top of the cab, as the rest of his body slammed against the rear window, seriously cracking but not shattering the glass. Unser was quite sure the criminal was killed instantaneously by the impact.

Jorge was given more time to respond to the collision Unser had purposely caused, but his suddenly braking caused him to lose control, his bike spinning onto the shoulder and landing in a ditch. Both him and Deanna were flung off of it and landing on the grass next to a metal fence separating the freeway from the adjacent neighborhood.

The last two bikes were able to stop in time, their riders shouting some Spanish profanity.

Unser pretended to be unaware of the first biker's fatal injuries as he stepped out of the cab. "Jesus Christ, man, my truck's all ruined. Do any of y'all know what a safe distance even means? Or can you not even understand a fucking word of English?" He purposely egged them on for a reason. "I just hope you don't find some activist lawyer to somehow say this is my fault."

"What the fuck is your _problema, gringo_?" Jorge demanded as he walked back onto the freeway, seeing his comrade was clearly deceased. "My friend…."

"Didn't you see that dog run across right in front?"

"A dog? My friend may be dead because you wanted to stop for a fucking dog, _gabacho_?"

Jorge came swinging at Unser, who blocked the blow. The other bikers drew their weapons, but Jorge screamed in Spanish for them to back him up without resorting to force given that the cops would be there at any time.

However Unser's friends in the Alameda County PD were already there waiting to respond. Jorge struck Unser with a brutal uppercut, Unser falling over onto the pavement. Two Alameda County police cruisers pulled up.

"Officer, we got in an accident and these men are assaulting me! Thank God y'all were right there!" Unser shouted.

Jorge knew they were in trouble. Due to the fact that he first attacked Unser, that was a case of assault and it gave these cops reason to search their bikes, and also question Deanna. With a shock, Jorge realized that this had been no accident at all, and that this pickup-driving gringo had purposely taken out the lead biker in such a way to not have to deal with him later.

Unser punched Jorge in the face, drawing some blood from a cut lip, while Jorge elbowed Unser back in the stomach, but instead of finishing him off with more blows, Jorge took the pistol from his holster and fired it in the direction of the police cars, bullets impacting on their windshields. Jorge then took off running toward Deanna, trying to get her over the fence. Several of the cops were now on the highway as panic ensued behind them. There was a six-car pileup as vehicles suddenly stopped to avoid the gunfire.

The two Mayans in the rear bikes knew they were in a terrible situation with the cops on one side and Unser on the other, though Unser was more focused on getting to Deanna. He fired several shots at the Mayans with his Glock but missed. The Alameda cops had taken cover behind their vehicles as the Mayans now unloaded with their AK-47s. Two deafening shotgun blasts were heard as the cops also took out the heavier weapons.

There were now four police officers facing off against the two bikers, but despite the shotguns, they were no match for the Soviet military weapons. One of the officers tried to advance, but a Mayan killed him with an automatic round to the chest. One of the other officers now took cover in the median, which was lower than the two roadways while the other two continued to exchange fire with the Mayans from behind the other cruiser. Even though the cops couldn't get in a good firing position, they discharged their guns in the Mayans' direction just to keep the gangsters distracted and hold them off.

"We have an officer down, request backup immediately!" one of the other cops radioed. "Mile marker 4 on the Shafter Freeway, just west of Exit 5! Repeat officer down! We have three suspects armed with military grade weapons!"

 _"Muerte tu mierda!"_ a Mayan screamed as he loaded a new magazine into his Kalashnikov.

At this time, Jorge also squeezed off some more shots in Unser's direction, forcing Unser to take cover behind his truck door. Several bullets whizzed over his head while others lodged themselves in the metal door. Keeping his head covered by the truck, Unser held his pistol through the open window and sent three more bullets in Jorge's direction, but Jorge was now crouched in the grass reloading. Unser cursed to himself as he realized the open space between him and the shoulder was too large for him to make it to Deanna before the Mayan gangster reloaded and there was nothing else that provided any kind of cover from Jorge's return fire.

He saw Jorge pick Deanna up and toss her over the fence, and knew he had to delay them. Deanna, the primary target wasn't mobile anymore, and he would be able to get her as long as he and the cops neutralized all the other threats. Unser fired four more bullets with his Glock before Jorge could raise his gun again. Three of them missed, either kicking up pieces of dirt and grass from the edge of the shoulder or clanging off the metal fence. The forth grazed Jorge's arm, causing him to yell out in pain, but did nothing to incapacitate him.

The Mayans firing from the middle of the highway managed to hit another officer, injuring him in the leg, and Unser knew he also needed to protect his friends as well. Unser turned his attention to the Mayan gunmen armed with the AKs and fired several bullets that whizzed by his head. Despite missing, this distracton allowed the cop in the median to fire a shotgun blast that completely blew apart one of the Mayans' feet. Unser then fired two deadly shots into his chest as the Mayan collapsed. The Mayan's partner continued firing with the AK-47, now unleashing a volley of automatic gunfire into the median but missing the officer there. An officer fired another shotgun blast from behind his cruiser that tore right through the Mayan's chest, sending a giant puff of red into the air. The other cops who had taken positions behind their vehicles also came forward, firing ten additional bullets into the Mayan.

Unser glanced to his left and saw that Jorge had already made it to the other side of the fence and immediately went in pursuit just as more police cars and ambulances were pulling up to the scene of the highway bloodbath.

"Deanna, c'mon! Fuck!" Jorge shouted as he saw Unser coming. Jorge only had 12 bullets left in his gun and their AKs were now lying on the blacktop next to his dead friends. He took one more look at Deanna and decided she wasn't worth it. To hell with getting her back. He wasn't about to be killed or arrested over it. Jorge fired two shots in Unser's direction to slow him down, then rolled along the grass as Unser fired back.

"Son of a bitch!" Unser cursed to himself as the climbed over the fence, firing his gun as he ran down the residential street. Bullets impacted all around him, though Jorge was firing erratically now.

"Fuck you, gringo!" Jorge screamed again as he reloaded. Unser took cover behind a tree as more bullets flew by. He then fired three more shots in Jorge's direction, but the Mexican was much faster and had gained some distance in his escape.

Jorge reached the next residential cross street and stood in the middle of the road, brandishing his pistol at the first car that approached, an Oldsmobile F-85. "Get the fuck out of the car now! Do you fucking hear me?" he screamed.

"Okay! Okay!" screamed the man driving it as opened the door and put his hands in the air.

"Away from the car! _Ahora!_ Keep your fucking hands up! _"_ Jorge shouted, waving his firearm in the air.

The carjacked couple moved onto the sidewalk and Jorge approached the driver's door, several residents ceasing their yard work and running back into their homes. Jorge fired a bullet straight into the man's heart. His wife saw her husband fall and began screaming, then tried to make a run for it across a front lawn. Four seconds later, Jorge killed her with three shots in the back before getting into the Oldsmobile and speeding off.

STATE HIGHWAY 24, SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

Twenty minutes later, the authorities had completely closed down the Route 24 freeway in both directions for the investigation, leading to some of the worst traffic nightmares in recent Bay Area memory as the commuter traffic was diverted onto the secondary roads. The highway was clear except for the dead bodies of the bikers and police officers and the wrecked vehicles as Unser climbed back over the fence.

"You find what you need?" he asked his Alameda PD contact.

The cop nodded. "Given that this was a crime scene, we searched all of the vehicles and our dogs detected a large amount of explosives residue on all of these bikes, and especially on her body." He pointed to Deanna, who was being loaded into an ambulance.

"She _will_ make it, right?"

"I'm pretty sure she will. Hopefully they'll be able to use what we have to search her house, expand their investigation into the Weatherman, and ultimately give us the evidence we need to go after Walt Rogers himself, enough to force the university to cooperate with us despite his standing there. I just hope all this has been worth it."

"Same here. Trust me."

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION, 20 MILES SOUTHWEST OF CHARMING

Instead of heading back to Teller's Automotive, the Sons convoy took the Route 91 bypass for a few miles then took an isolated rural highway southeast to the Wahewa Indian Reservation, which was located 25 miles from Charming city limits. The road conditions deteriorated for the last five miles even before they reached the guard station and fence marking the reservation's borders.

Keith McGee eased the van to a stop at the guard station which he could tell was not heavily trafficked. Although some members of the Wahewa tribe worked in Charming, most residents of the reservation rarely went to town except on shopping trips and there were was little of tourist value or recreational opportunities on the reservation that couldn't be found in state parks with better amenities.

Keith rolled down the window and spoke hurriedly to the female tribal officer stationed there. "We need to get to the clinic. We have two men with gunshot wounds. We can explain later."

"Explain now," the officer said with an almost hostile glare. "Who are you? Our clinic is for tribal members only. You came all the way out here when St. Thomas Hospital has a fully equipped ER." There was no hiding how suspicious there arrival here was.

"I guess this is where I show you my license and all?" Keith said. He turned to JT and Piney. "Even the fucking Brits have a better sense of humor at the border." His only experience at an international border was when he went from the Northern Ireland portion of the UK into the Republic of Ireland to do business with IRA faction members hiding in Dublin. There, he had both British and Irish border agents on his payroll. _Guess the reservation's like a bloody different country? Well makes sense we're here_.

The tribal cop looked at his temporary California license. "Look, miss, I honestly just moved here from New York, by way of Belfast of…."

"We are not expecting a visit from you," the cop said. "What business…"

"You must be new here!" Lenny called out from the back, still groggy from the alcohol and the pain of his wounds. "Where's Officer Tony? He's usually here, he knows exactly who I am."

The cop went back into the station and a slightly older male tribal officer came back with her. He quickly looked in the van and greeted Wally and Thomas.

"This here's Officer Tony. Tony, these are my brothers from the club," Thomas said.

Officer Tony patted his new female partner on the shoulder and motioned for her to open the gate. "Sorry about the confusion, yeah Janet here really did just start this week." He turned to her. "Wally Glazer. Him, Lenny and Thomas back there in that other cars have become true friends of our tribe since you were away in Colorado. Chief Raging Bull himself is involved in an important business partnership with them that will benefit our people."

"Mutually benefit," Lenny said with a grin despite his pain. "We definitely need a place to lay low for a while, where we're not bothered. And these guys, they're my brothers from the new club. If you trust me and Thomas, you can trust all of them. I'll vouch for each and every one of them. Just get us to the clinic before we pass back out."

Lenny gave Keith directions as they drove deeper into the reservation. The road climbed up several hundred feet in elevation and they saw a large field of newly planted cannabis grown on one of the hillsides. Lenny and Thomas could see JT staring intently in shock at the scene. This crop alone consisted of at least four acres. It was like seeing a piece of South America right in their backyard that they never knew was here. Of course there was illegal marijuana growing operations all over the nation, but rarely anything on this scale. And that was because local and state authorities had no jurisdiction on Indian reservations. Only the federal government did in the form of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and the BIA agents were given generous enough bribes to convince this was all for cultural use only.

"I know it's supposed to be part of the Native American culture and all, but it's not like they're doing powwows and other such ceremonies every single day," JT commented as they rounded a bend and came up on a slightly smaller marijuana field.

"That, my friends, is the business relationship we have with the Wahewa," Thomas said from the back of the van. "Helping guys relax in Charming. It's only weed, not the real dangerous shit the Mexicans are bringing over the border."

"And you're saying the tribe's supplying all the stuff that got you locked up in Stockton?"

"Of course! Chief Raging Bull's personally in charge of the entire operation. His family's run the tribe since the day the white man first showed up in these parts. They know how to play the game, make the most out of their situation. If there's anything us and the Wahewa have in common, it's that we can take care of our own and we don't want the law messing with us. It's all about trust, because they know we won't screw them over the way the government has for centuries. We've always delivered on our promises, and they know our loyalty can be counted on."

JT now realized this was why Lenny had been in prison when they first met. Lenny could had just had a slap on the wrist, but he refused to cut a deal and snitch on the Wahewa. The DEA, as a federal agency, _did_ have jurisdiction on the reservation and they couldn't risk losing their primary suppliers, plus the fact that Raging Bull allowed them to use the reservation as a sanctuary in case they ran afoul of the law in Charming.

Despite just being a major shootout with the Weather Underground and the Mayans, JT was still shocked and troubled by what he had seen and heard. He was beginning to wonder if he had made a deal with the devil, entering this world when he formed the club. Lenny, Thomas, and Keith had participated in their mission against the Weathermen in an effort to protect their town, yes, but he was beginning to wonder if they also had ulterior motives for forming the club. Yes, he was glad for the sanctuary that their connections had provided for the moment, but the future seemed more and more of a mystery every day.

When he formed this partnership with the other bikers, he was so fixated on the immediate mission that he didn't fully consider the baggage each of the other men had brought to the table with them, and that this too would become part of the club. Yes, he was the President of the Sons of Anarchy, but JT was already realizing that he may not be as in control as he had first thought.


	12. The Blessings of Death

_Author's Note – I am not well versed on organized crime in Latin America during this time period. However here I reference the kind of lawlessness and violence that would eventually give rise to the formation of the Medellin Cartel in Colombia by Pablo Escobar in the 1980s, and the Mexican drug cartels in the 90s.  
_

CHAPTER 12: THE BLESSINGS OF DEATH

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION

The road flattened again as they approached the Indian Health Service clinic at the center of the reservation, which also included a small grocery store, the community center, the reservation high school and the main tribal offices. This had to be one of the most forlorn looking places JT had seen outside of Southeast Asia. The clinic was a cinder block building painted green on the outside except for a mural depicting some noteworthy chiefs from the Wahewa tribe's history.

"What's going on here?" a young nurse said as Lenny and Thomas were helped out of the van in the parking lot.

"These men have gunshot wounds. We need you to stabilize them and do what you can to help them," Wally Glazer said as Otto Moran helped Thomas out of the vehicle. At that moment, a large Jeep also pulled into the parking lot and a tall Indian man came out and approached.

"Wally, I know who you all are but we're not allowed to treat non-Indians here. It's not us, it's the BIA. They'll do anything they can to…"

"Well they don't need to know about it," said the man from the Jeep. "There's no Feds on our land at the moment and the officers at the gate have been instructed to call us immediately if any were to show up Let's get these guys patched up."

"Yes, Chief," the nurse said with a deferential nod and motioned for several of her colleague to bring forth the gurneys and wheel the injured Sons into an operating room.

"Gentlemen, this is Chief Raging Bull," Wally said. One by one, the men made their introductions.

"The news is making an even bigger deal out of this than the Lodi mess," Raging Bull said, "Are you sure you weren't followed?"

"I'm certain," JT replied, "Unlike the Mayans who got into that shootout with the cops by the tunnel, I've been trained for this kind of stuff. I've done covert ops in Vietnam in addition to combat. No heat is going to fall on you, and we're grateful for your hospitality, Chief."

"We and Charming are neighbors," Raging Bull replied, "We understand each other. Much easier to deal one on one with people we know than some government suits who show up a few times a year from Washington and act like they own this place. When I deal with Lenny, Thomas, and Wally and their crew, they treat us as true equal partners. And by the way, the government doesn't just feel they're better than us. They feel like they're above everyone in this country."

"Ain't that the truth," JT replied, thinking bitterly to how he was treated in the courtroom and how the Veterans Affairs system and the self-righteous civilian bureaucrats who ran it did everything they could to refuse treatment to soldiers who had fought in Vietnam.

"And I'm sure you saw our, um, business ventures on the way here to the clinic," the chief said, "Better to help ourselves, that's the American way after all. You depend on the government, they own you. If we make our own living, don't get all that aid from Washington, we're in control of ourselves. Obviously the government hates that. This operation, though, can always be expanded. Your friends were involved here before they joined the club."

"No rules in our charter against other personal enterprises," JT said. Most other MC presidents would have added…..as long as it didn't conflict with club business, like owning your own strip club when the club itself was pimping hoes on the street. That would come years later. At the same time, JT also knew that they might be in for more trouble with the Mayans, and with Professor Rogers still on the loose and no doubt out for some payback over the Weathermen they had killed in their ambush.

Another car pulled up to the clinic and a Wahewa woman in her mid-20s went in, almost hysterical, demanding to see Thomas. "He told me anyone who's hurt would be brought here. I can't believe he's one of them! I need to see him now!"

"Megan, it's okay, he's being treated here now. We need to let the doctors work in peace," Lenny said. It was clear that they also knew each other, and that she was at least somewhat aware of the club's planned action on this day.

"How badly is he hurt?" she asked, looking at all of the bikers gathered there.

"It's not bad," JT replied. Sensing her skepticism, he added, "I've seen dozens of gunshots wounds in Vietnam. He'll be good as new in a few weeks. No permanent damage. If this was the VA hospital, they wouldn't even allow a follow-up visit for this."

JT realized that Megan was the Native American girlfriend that Thomas had mentioned. Megan worked in Charming at a steakhouse, though she actually wasn't waiting on Thomas the first time they met. She was actually just getting a few beers at her own bar after she got off while Thomas was waiting for some food to go. Eventually he began going there for drinks and food just to hang out with her and they eventually hit it off.

JT assumed Megan must know about Thomas's involvement with the day's events or else she also would have questioned why they came all the way out here to this clinic. With nothing to do but wait, they all went into the small waiting area and did their best to get some rest after a harrowing afternoon.

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY

The radio was on in Professor Rogers's well apportioned department chair office in Wheeler Hall as junior philosophy major and Weather Underground terror operative Mike Grayson stepped in. While he came from a white Episcopalian family, Mike wore a t-shirt depicting Elijah Muhammad rallying his Nation of Islam supporters at a mosque. Mike was one of those who believed that Malcolm X had betrayed the Black Muslims and that Elijah Muhammad was justified in ordering his assassination.

"Once again, these may only be rumors that the Weather Underground was involved, but authorities are saying they will leave no possibilities unexplored as they seek answers for the bloodshed that occurred at the Sunvalley Mall earlier this afternoon. Many residents in the outer suburbs are questioning whether there should already have been more attention given to the Weathermen after they claimed responsibility for the bombing in Lodi last month…."

Normally, Rogers would be talking back at the radio saying it was the injustice of the Vietnam War and American society in general that provoked that attack but right now his top concern was Deanna's obvious capture and what the authorities may learn about his own involvement.

"Anything new at all?" he asked with a deeply concerned expression on his face.

Mike shook his head.

"So _none_ of them have checked in yet? Are you sure?"

"Yes, professor," answered Mike, "I checked my messages less than ten minutes ago, nothing. No answer on Jimmy's home phone, and Deanna's roommate said she hasn't returned yet. Nobody at Antonio's house could speak English but he clearly wasn't there."

Rogers put his hand against his forehead. "This is bad. This is a fucking disaster! How the hell did this happen? Who the fuck were…."

"Professor?" another voice said. Rogers looked up and saw that it was his secretary holding a yellow envelope. She looked shocked at hearing that kind of language come out of Rogers's mouth. "This came in for you as priority mail today. It's strange, but they mailed it from Charming, of all places, and put it in priority mail yesterday to ensure you got it today. The mailroom even had to sign for it."

Rogers took the envelope. "Thanks….it's….it's a private matter. Thank you."

"Of course, professor," the secretary said and left. Charming. Not far from Lodi where their previous attack had taken place. There was no way this could be good. Rogers ripped open the envelope and saw a Sons of Anarchy patch, with a typed note.

"Forecast for Professor Walt Rogers. You will be experiencing some inclement weather very soon," the note said simply with the word "weather" highlighted.

Rogers hurled the note and the patch against the wall, then angrily swept everything off his desk, including the framed picture of himself and Saul Alinsky together. He then picked up his chair and through it against the bookcase, sending piles of books falling down.

"Get...get the fuck out of here, Mike," Rogers stammered.

Mike stood there frozen for a moment. "What is it, sir? Can I..."

"I said get the fuck out of here! And lay low until you hear from me again!" Rogers yelled at Mike, who nodded sheepishly and always tripped over himself as he left the office.

BEST WESTERN INN AND SUITES, LODI / SAN FRANCISCO FBI FIELD OFFICE

Special agent Mark Tasker cursed the small size of the indoor swimming pool, the feel of the Jacuzzi jets and the lack of a sauna and steam room as he dried himself with the bath towels provided by the hotel. The average tourist would certainly be impressed by this new property compared to many of the other lodging options in the area – primarily motor courts and smaller historic hotels – but Tasker had a government expense account and like so many high ranking federal employees was accustomed to splurging on the taxpayers dime. He was sick and tired of this place, even if he was able to visit his family in San Francisco several days at a time. Never mind that a private industry employee might have even commuted here several times a week, but of course Tasker was too good for dealing with the traffic and commute time. He also wanted to always be here to make sure the local police, including the ones in Charming, weren't stepping on his toes in the credit union bombing investigation that he was desperately trying to close.

"Agent Tasker, sir," the young receptionist called out as he walked across the lobby toward the bar.

"What is it?" Tasker asked impatiently. At least she had learned he wasn't one for any friendly chitchat

The young woman maintained her cheery attitude. "You got a call from a Mr. Smalls from your home office in San Francisco. He says it's extremely important. His number is…."

"I know what it is," Tasker interrupted her and went to the elevators instead of the bar.

Bradley Smalls was one of the junior agents at the San Francisco field office, one of the few go getters in Tasker's demanding opinion. He wished Smalls wasn't just overreacting to something. Of course Tasker was aware that a new investigation was now opened due to the events at the Sunvalley Mall, where the death toll was now 17 and still rising.

"What is it, Brad?" Tasker said into his room phone. "This better be important."

"It is, sir…."

"Well? What do you have for me? I'm about to get myself a drink. This couldn't wait until I stop by the office this Friday?" He didn't mention that he was still going to drink something from the minibar, only its selection wasn't up to his satisfaction. At least the lobby bar was better.

"Agent Tasker, this….I feel this is time sensitive and may pertain to your investigation."

Tasker didn't reply and simply waited for Smalls to continue.

"Yes, sir. See as you know we've also been investigating the shootout between the Alameda County police and the Mexican bikers on the 24, where that Weatherman activist was also arrested. That incident was allegedly first triggered by a traffic accident where one of the Mexicans rear ended a pickup truck. Well, for one thing they identified the dead bikers as being members of the Mayans MC out of Oakland. Unfortunately there's still deniability about whether the club was present in Concord. But there's something else that just felt wrong, like there's more to it. Just my instinct, sir."

"And you looked into it, Brad." More of a statement than a question.

"Yes, it all felt too random to me. So I looked through the state records for the pickup truck and its license plate. It's registered to an officer in the Charming Police Department by the name of Wayne Unser."

Tasker spit out the wine he was drinking. "Say that name again, Brad?"

"Um, Wayne Unser, sir," Smalls even spelled out the last name. "Charming PD, part of the investigation you were in. That's why I figured you should know this. Maybe it's all connected."

"Jesus Christ! I know that son of a bitch. Good work, Brad. I'm very impressed. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. Whatever fucking games these yokels are playing, they'll be over pretty soon."

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION, LATER THAT EVENING

JT heard Piney calling his name as he walked along a dirt trail leading away from the clinic. It was now dusk, and the scattering of lights around the main tribal buildings was just beginning to come on. For once, it was peaceful and quiet, JT thought as he felt a refreshing breeze on his face and heard the sounds of owls and crickets in the approaching night. "Hey, man. Hell of a day."

JT paused and took a deep breath.

"I know what you're thinking brother," Piney said, making a sweeping motion across the hilly landscape of the reservation. "I don't like this either. We had no idea Thomas and them are in so deep in this shit. If shit really goes down, the Indians have some kind of protection because of their status, but we're screwed. The cops, the DEA, all of them are going to come after this entire club. None of us may be totally insulated from that."

"Yeah, brother. I'm glad I'm not the only one, but we needed their help today. We couldn't have gone after the Weathermen and escaped the Mayans all by ourselves," JT reminded his friend.

"I'm honestly starting to wonder if some of these had had ulterior motives for organizing this club with us. I know this club is _not_ supposed to be about those kinds of illegal activities." Of course their war with the Weathermen was also technically illegal.

"And I'm going to make it perfectly clear to everyone next time we hold chapel. At least right now we're different than most clubs out there. When this is over, I may not even be part of it anymore. Let Thomas and them continue it. But we got more immediate things to worry about first. Do we know how many Mayans we killed today? The Oakland chapter's most definitely going to respond in some way. How much do they know about us?"

"They just know about our existence, and that we're based in Charming. We'll stay here for a couple more days. I've already told our buddies in town including Unser to be on the lookout for any Mexicans riding through town on foreign bikes," said Piney.

"You think the Mayans are really onto us?"

"There's no way Rogers wouldn't tell them after what went down," JT said. If he had even suspected the Mayans would be at the meet that early, they would have never been so open about openly mailing that threat to Rogers, but hindsight was always 20/20.

"We'll definitely be on the lookout for anyone snooping around town," Piney said with determination, "I'll spread the word to everyone we know." With the exception of Keith, all of the other Sons had lived in or around Charming their entire lives and was on a first name basis with at least a couple people in every local business.

MAYANS MC NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS, EAST LOS ANGELES

The Mayans MC may be one of the most powerful outlaw biker gangs in the country, but that was definitely not obvious from their national headquarters. While its national leaders had considerable assets and often lived in some of Southern California's swankiest suburban gated communities, their meetings always took place in Montebello, the violent, impoverished, and drug infested section of East L.A. where they first set up shop upon their arrival from Mexico. The gang had actually started in southern Mexico and took their name from the ancient civilization whose historical ruins dotted that region. National meetings were held in a large warehouse filled with narcotics, illegal weapons, and counterfeit currency.

The Mayans national president Geraldo Morales was already waiting outside as Frisco Martinez's Suzuki motorcycle pulled up to the warehouse in a cloud of dust. Benito Chavarria and the Oakland master at arms, Alejandro Santana, accompanied him. Jorge was under specific instructions to not leave the grounds of Plaza Maya given that the police have already announced a statewide manhunt for him.

Gathered inside were the Mayans national officers and the charter presidents from throughout the Southwest. It was extremely rare for a senior member in a Mayan charter to meet a violent end, so a regional summit had been called to discuss what happened to Juan Martinez. Over a dozen armed guards were posted outside the industrial building where the meeting was being held.

"You are sure you know exactly who was responsible for this?" Geraldo asked, taking a puff on his Cohiba cigar, one of the less dangerous things the Mayans smuggled into the United States.

" _Si,_ Geraldo. They are a new motorcycle club that calls themselves the Sons of Anarchy."

"You know I have eyes and ears everywhere. Why have I not heard of these Sons of Anarchy before?"

"Geraldo, _por favor_ , _con respecto_ " Frisco said, maintaining a careful tone of voice toward his _presidente nacional_. "They are as we are trying to tell you, a _new_ club. We are as surprised as you are. There was no indication that they were about to organize themselves into a club."

" _Y quienes son estos gringos?_ And who are these gringos? If what you tell me, and what I hear on Univision is true, these people have far more _cajones y machismo_ than the typical gringo." Despite living illegally in the U.S., Geraldo and most of the other Mayans looked down on Americans. The Americans were weak and cowardly. Even many inner city gangsters were unaccustomed to the level of brutal violence the Mayans brought from south of the border, which allowed them to quickly establish themselves.

"We think they are soldiers who recently came back from Vietnam," Frisco Martinez informed the men gathered around the national table. "The Weathermen had attacked many military targets in Northern Cali, including the bombing in Lodi that was in the news."

National Vice President Pablo Hinojosa spoke up. "So these Sons of Anarchy, they were targeting the Weathermen, not us."

"I…" Frisco hesitated, " _Si_. They clearly wanted revenge for the Weathermen attacks, especially the ones in Lodi and Charming. The Sons are believed to be based out of Charming, in the San Joaquin Valley, about forty minutes east of Oakland."

"So it was not an attack on the Mayans then," Pablo pointed out. "Remember the Weathermen are not part of our brotherhood. They are not our allies, simply our business associates. Your brother was simply present when the Sons attacked them. Of course all of us around this table share your grief over Juan's death, but this was simply an unfortunate tragedy."

"But they killed my brother!" Frisco shouted, slamming his palm down on the table, jolting all the senior members. He was unable to keep his composure any longer. "Juan's spirit cries out from the grave for revenge! His soul is not at peace! I can feel it! What the fuck do you expect me to do?"

" _Cuidado,_ Juan You will speak with respect at this table!" Pablo cautioned him, but Frisco was too riled up for any advice to sink in.

"Many people in America hate the soldiers," Geraldo said, " _La policia_ will investigate. They may bring the Sons to justice."

"They are not even in the news for that," Benito Chavarria pointed out, "We checked all the way down here. They covered their tracks well. Also, they must have friends in the police. There's no fucking way what happened to Jorge was just a coincidence. Our chapter wouldn't be here if we felt we had any other choice. Those fucking baby killers are never going to pay unless we make them."

Frisco spoke up again. "You expect me to worship and honor Juan on the Day of the Dead, and tell him that we will never avenge his death? That those redneck soldiers are still walking about freely in Charming, bragging about how many of us they killed? They must pay for what they did! I hope all of you remember it was Juan and I, together, that started this chapter in Oakland. Even back in Mexico, Juan was willing to do everything that you asked. Without him, the Colombians would be in control of Merida right now. We owe it to him! And I want it done before the Day of the Dead, so Juan's spirit can rest in peace with our ancestors."

Pablo paused. "So you are asking us to approve a motion to go to war with the Sons of Anarchy over this?"

"Yes, Pablo!" Frisco replied passionately. "I need permission from this table to devote our entire charter to this task. We can easily crush these people! All they have is a few weapons they are probably out of by now! They are a bunch of worthless country _gauchos_ who fuck their cows and sisters."

"That is what the Colombian _maricones_ said about our fathers before they learned to never set foot in Yucatan again," cautioned Pablo Hinojosa.

Frisco ignored that comment. He detested Pablo and wondered how he ever became the national VP. Perhaps he had _machismo_ when he first helped the club carve out their territories in L.A. but he was becoming soft, Frisco thought. Living in America for too long can do that to someone. "In addition to revenge, this is about business!" he said loudly, looking around the table. Deep inside, Frisco didn't expect the Sons to actually compete with the Mayans over control of the East Bay drug and weapons trafficking trade, but overestimating the enemy was far better than underestimating them, plus he needed to make his case right now.

Frisco continued speaking. "We have controlled drugs and guns in the East Bay for _muchos anos_ now. We are trying to seize our part of San Francisco before the Hong Kong Triads grow too powerful there. We cannot allow any distractions like a new club forming in our own backyard."

"And how will this end, in your view?" asked the president of the Las Vegas charter.

"We will destroy the Sons. I will find out who is in that club. It was their president John Teller who planned the events at the mall, and Piney Winston and Clay Morrow who helped him organize the attack. I will make sure those three men are killed, and every other Sons and suspected Sons member if possible. We will wipe out the club, and in doing so, we will send a message throughout Northern California that we will not tolerate the formation of another club that challenges our authority. We get revenge for Juan, and make this statement all at once."

"He's right on that point," Geraldo said. "We cannot allow another MC to operate in the area. Even if they do not threaten our interests at the moment, there is no guarantee that they won't be in the future. We have no reason to believe the Sons of Anarchy will simply disband themselves after some time."

"And also, Juan's death cannot go unanswered!" the representative from the El Paso charter said loudly. "Juan and I also knew each other since our days in Merida. But it is not only about what Juan did for this club. The fact that these gringos dared to attack a meeting where us Mayans were present, that in itself shows they do not respect our power. The other _gabachos,_ the Chinks, the niggers, everyone will think we are a bunch of _hueyputas maricones._ This cannot stand. We will not be soft like the Americans! If this was Mexico, we would not even be having this conversation! We must strike! If we do not, everyone will be questioning our _cajones_ and our _machismo!_ "

Heads nodded around the table at his argument. Soon thereafter, a vote was called, and a clear majority voted in Frisco's favor.

Pablo and several other dissenters began to speak, but Geraldo Morales slammed the gavel, the sound echoing across the otherwise quiet room, with only the sound of outside traffic heard. "We have heard the arguments, and have come to a decision. The discussion is over."

" _Mano,_ for obvious reasons I believe it would be most appropriate that you lead us in prayer for the success in this war," Geraldo said to Frisco.

Francisco Martinez nodded graciously as they faced the two statues displayed in a place of honor within the room. One was the Virgin of Guadalupe, Mexico's official Catholic saint. The other was Nuestra Senora de Santa Muerte, who was best known as the patron saint of the Mexican criminal underworld.

"Juan was my brother, and a brother to this club. He was everything to me. Be with us as we seek _nuestra venganza,_ our revenge, and may the holy curses of Santa Muerte fall upon the Sons of Anarchy and everyone associated with them in any way."

First Frisco, and then the other Mayans around the room performed the Catholic sign of the cross one by one. _"En el nombre del padre, el hijo, y el espiritu sancto._ In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. _"_ The irony of how far from the Bible each of them had strayed was completely lost on them.


	13. Our Town, Their Rules

CHAPTER 13: OUR TOWN, THEIR RULES

TELLER RESIDENCE, CHARMING

JT was in a deep sleep when he began hearing a loud thumping sound, then realized that someone was knocking heavily on his front door even though it was only five in the morning. He immediately grabbed his Glock pistol before silently making his way down the stairs. He made sure the safety was off and was about to yell a warning to whoever at the door when his uninvited visitors called out first.

"John Teller, this is the FBI! Open this fucking door! This is the FBI! Don't fuck with us!" JT had no intention of fleeing, but he glanced back toward the kitchen he saw the sihoulettes or a group of armed federal agents gathered on the back porch ready to greet him if he chose to exit the house that way.

JT felt the rage course through his veins as he went over to the front door. He and his fellow members of the MC knew the authorities had nothing concrete on them, only rumors. It was highly unlikely that the FBI had a warrant. So now the Bureau was here harassing him already, while they purposely looked the other way as the Weather Underground killed and intimidated veterans all over the country.

"We need a word with you, John Teller!" the voice screamed followed by more banging on the door. Then sirens blared from whatever FBI vehicles were outside "I tell you what, soldier boy. Of course you don't gotta open up, but we'll be here day and night until we get a word with you. I think you'd wear out your welcome among your neighbors rather quickly, don't you think, John Teller? So you going to open this fucking door or what? I'm waiting, soldier boy!"

JT swung the door open and glared at the group of FBI agents standing on his front porch. One of the agents, a butch woman with short hair, kicked over a rocking chair, breaking it. "Oh, I tripped, sorry," she said sarcastically.

The lead agent smirked and scoffed at JT. "I'm Special Agent Mark Tasker. And you must be John Teller, known as JT. Think you're such a big deal that your initials are enough?"

"And what the hell do you want? Cause I've heard plenty about you too, including about your keen interest in bringing the Weathermen responsible for killing my friend to justice and looking into all the threats we veterans have been receiving."

"Is that right, boy?" Agent Tasker said back then chuckled. "You people out here are used to telling tall tales, aren't you? So what have these good, God fearing Charming folk got to say about me? Watch your mouth, though, soldier boy. Cause verbal assault's still assault. Don't you dare disrespect me, boy, cause you're never going to get where I am."

"Just that you'd be better off investigating a major terrorist attack instead of wasting your time giving me a wakeup call at this ungodly hour."

"Oh but I _am!_ " Tasker said. "What else would you call what happened over in Concord the other day? Over a dozen dead in the mall, people afraid to go shopping now."

"First of all, gas is a little too expensive for us to go all the way there to do our shopping. And why ain't you people blaming the Weathermen for their apparent falling out with their Oakland _amigos_? This after they massacred an even larger number of civilians in Lodi?"

"We know your new crew here was involved, Teller. The Sons of Anarchy kuttes were quite visible on that security camera from that Kay Jewelers in the mall atrium. Some of this new technology can really do wonders, I'm telling you."

JT knew that was a complete bald faced lie because they had purposely not worn their kuttes during the showdown with the Weathermen. It's possible they may have found witnesses who have seen them outside of Charming, which had been the point, but it was not evidence. Most likely, it was all just bullshit. Tasker had heard rumors and taken them to be fact given his hatred of the Sons and whatever came out of Charming. JT couldn't just flat out call him a liar though, at least not in his current situation.

"So somebody makes some motorcycle jackets. How do you know we're not just starting our own line of clothing products? Is entrepreneurship illegal too now in this new America?" If Tasker was going to be a smartass, JT had no problem dealing it right back to him.

"Let me be honest with you, Teller," Tasker said, looking around. "I hate this fucking place you call home. Every goddamn day I spend here, I feel a part of me dying. Yet the higher ups won't let me leave here until all this trouble you and your new biker buddies have stirred up is resolved. Consider this a courtesy call. We're watching you, soldier boy, and your game's going to be up soon."

Tasker ordered his agents to head back to their vehicles. As they drove off, they blared their sirens again, making sure everyone on the street was woken up.

SONS OF ANARCHY CLUBHOUSE, TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR

Otto Moran was panting as he ran up the stairs to the chapel room and took the only remaining empty seat at the table. JT breathed a visible sigh of relief from the head of the table as he slammed the gavel down and called the meeting to order. "Glad you made it, Otto," JT said. The mood had been tense following Special Agent Tasker's visit to JT, which was on the agenda, and the knowledge that the Mayans would be out for blood. The fact that no communications came from the Mayans worried them. The only assumption was that the Mayans would attack at any time with no warning.

"Sorry I'm late, guys," Otto said, looking at JT and placing a plastic Hoffman's Pharmacy shopping bag on the table. "I had an important meeting with Marco over at Casa Grande." He was referring to Charming's most popular Mexican restaurant, located downtown on 4th Avenue, and its owner, Marco Rodriguez.

"So what do you have for us?" Clay asked, looking at the bag with curiosity, "Allergy season's over, so I know it ain't nothing for me." He laughed at his own joke, and some others followed, though the nervous mood remained.

Otto cleared his throat. "A number of Mexicans from out of town actually went in there on Monday and were asking about this club, whether we owned any properties here, who our members are."

"And they were Mayans? What did Marco and the other guys at Casa Grande tell them?"

"They never claimed to be Mayans, and may merely be street thugs allied with them but they were talking about how the food in Casa Grande's not authentic enough compared to what they can get in Oakland, not knowing their waiter took some college level Spanish. They then insisted on speaking in Spanish to Marco himself thinking Marco's one of them. They must have assumed our local Mexican restaurant's the natural place to start, plus I'm pretty sure their taste buds aren't used to Harvey's."

"No better man than Marco," Piney said, "He's one of us, been in Charming over 10 years. Anyone who even thinks about fucking with him will answer to the club."

Otto untied the plastic bag and took out a video, walking it over to the TV and VCR player mounted on the clubhouse wall. "Marco gave us the footage from the surveillance cameras. Yeah, some of it's a bit grainy, but I can make out their faces pretty good. Unser might be able to confirm if they're patched Mayans or if they just paid a few random Mexicans to come out here from Oakland."

"We should make a copy of this and get it to Unser." Clay said in that gruff tone that he often had, looking at JT for the nod of approval. "Maybe he can use his connections in the Bay Area to shed some light on who these bastards are. Once we do, we'll teach them a lesson about coming over here to our town like a bunch of slimy cowards trying to sow discord between our club and our partners in the community."

"What did Marco tell them about us?" JT asked. He knew Marco was a friend of the club and that his loyalties lay with his adopted hometown, but was concerned that he may have placed himself in danger if he claimed to know too little. The menu at Casa Grande clearly stated it had been serving the Charming community since 1960 so Marco would have to be knowledgeable about things around here.

"He said that we were pretty secretive and didn't know where this clubhouse is, just that they see us around town a lot," Otto told them, "He did say that we're suspected of owning Charming Auto, though he's not entirely sure about that. That's everything."

"Good thinking," JT said. Charming Auto was a major competitor to the Tellers' garage and was known for its unscrupulous dealings with customers. JT didn't feel guilty at all about that place being bait. "I want us to be on alert for anything that happens there. I'm also going to talk to Wayne, see if they can have some more plainclothes cops around that area. We know they're going to strike us soon."

Head nodded around the table.

"And now our next order of business," JT said. "A few nights ago, a Special Agent Tasker paid me a visit at my home, make it quite clear to me that he suspects us of being involved in the Sunvalley Mall showdown. I don't know where he's getting that info from or if he's just bluffing, it's something I need to talk to Wayne about too."

"We do know of Tasker," Clay said darkly, "He was assigned to investigate the Lodi bombing and did everything to try to end the investigation without any arrests. With the Weathermen also one of the parties in Concord -heck I reckon they can't explain away Comrade Jimmy's body lying on top of the parking garage – he's also been assigned to this case too."

"They got nothing on us," Lenny said. "I know how those Feds work. They're full of bullshit, always fucking with people's minds so that we get paranoid, turn on one another, maybe start snitching to them. That's just their style."

"You're right, if they had anything evenly remotely concrete, they woulda dragged me out of the house in handcuffs. But we should definitely watch out for him. He could cause a lot of trouble for us, especially when things start heating up with the Mayans."

MAYANS CLUBHOUSE, PLAZA MAYA MEXICAN RESTAURANT, OAKLAND

While jubilant probably wasn't the best way to describe the mood among them, the Oakland charter's spirits were higher than they had been for almost three weeks after Frisco, Benito, and Alejandro had returned from Los Angeles with the news that the national leadership had given them the green light to go to war against the Mayans. The three of them embraced their brothers by the strip club stage then walked over into the restaurant portion of the property, going into the private dining room where they held this particular meeting.

Frisco took his place at the President's seat and poured himself a potent glass of Don Julio tequila and started passing it around the table, just as prospects brought out buckets of Negra Modelo and Dos Equis beer and large plates filled with sizzling Caribbean-style fish tacos, huevos rancheros and enchiladas verdes topped with Mexican chorizo sausage. Benito did the honors of reciting a Catholic blessing and they began eating and got down to business. _"Salud_ , to our club, and to the deaths of John Teller and his friends."

Frisco gulped down his tequila. "Jorge, Oscar, any problems from _la policia_?" Oscar, one of the prospects, was Alejandro's younger step-brother.

"Our connections in the Oakland PD took care of things," Jorge replied, "They had more cops than the ones who usually check on us, but we were given the heads up and they didn't find anything."

"They were more nervous than us," Oscar said with an arrogant smirk on his face as he took a long swig of his Modelo beer. "Our people in the neighborhood kept an eye on them." The Oakland police knew the Mayans would never surrender without a deadly fight, and that the surrounding neighborhoods were very hostile to them. Many also knew that if a barrio resident accused them of wrongdoing, chances are an Oakland jury would side against the police regardless of the facts.

"And the FBI, the state troopers, the highway patrol weren't there?"

" _No, jefe,_ " Jorge said, "Only Oakland PD. But how did they even suspect us? We didn't wear our kuttes to Concord."

"The Sons have their own police friends. Wayne Unser was the man who caused the accident, Jorge. He's a Charming cop. He'll certainly be on our list of targets," Frisco said, "Even though I haven't decided if we should just kill him or use him as a source for information."

"We have enough information, I believe," Alejandro said, with Benito nodding in agreement.

"I want to kill him for what he did to me," Jorge said, his eyes filled with hatred. "I want him to look into my eyes as I pull the trigger. I can't remember the last time somebody fucked with me the way Wayne Unser did!"

"I've also found some additional stuff about the Sons of Anarchy," Benito added. "Keeping that fucking pig alive isn't necessary."

"What have you and the men you sent to Charming found?" Frisco inquired the men gathered in front of him.

"Our friends from MH-11 went to Charming like we discussed. The Mexicans there were more than happy to help them. Brown pride, you know," Jorge said. MH-11, officially Mara Hondurana, was a street gang formed by illegal Honduran immigrants in a Section 8 housing project on Oakland's 11th Street, hence its name. "We know that Charming Auto, one of the biggest dealerships there, which also sells motorcycles, is owned by the Sons of Anarchy. Now that we know about Wayne Unser, we can easily go back and find out information about him too."

"I've also obtained additional information about the other members," Benito said, "Remember the calls Alejandro and I made when we stopped in Lost Hills? We hit the jackpot on that, like the Americans would say."

"Tell me about it." Frisco motioned for a prospect to bring him another bottle of tequila from the bar.

"We have detailed information on one of the Sons. I and them actually have some mutual acquaintances from prison," Benito explained. "Some of them hate these Sons already, others just need some money and drugs to be convinced to help us. The Son we know is Lenny Janowitz, who served time in Coalinga before being transferred to Stockton. We even have his address. He lives with another Sons member named Otto Moran."

" _Excellente, hermanos,"_ Frisco said with excitement. "We will attack all of these places at once. We will force their president to surrender, and then we will kill him."

"But Frisco, how will this look for us to not hold a meet with John Teller and his men, even if our intentions are already set and its just for show? The unspoken rules among MCs…"

"I stopped caring about the rules the moment they killed Juan! Did they announce they were even going to war with us before they shot my brother?" Frisco almost yelled. "And besides," he said with a sly smile, "Nobody needs to know. The national office and our friends will believe what we tell them."

Jorge gave his suggestions to his fellow Mayans. "Maybe attacking them all at once isn't the smartest move. Within the same day or two days, _si,_ but it is best to keep them guessing. It will keep the club distracted, and more likely for Lenny and Otto to be at home. When they realize they are at war, they will try to spread out instead of being in one place that they think we will attack."

"I agree, Frisco," Benito said, "We don't know where their clubhouse is, but they don't know that. Once their friends come under attack, they will grow even more paranoid."

"Okay, get yourselves ready and alert our friends in MH-11. We are going to Charming."

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

Unser left JT sitting by the fountain in the city park in between city hall and the police department and went into the building, going straight into Chief Hancock's office.

"Anything from the club?" Hancock asked.

"The Mayans have been snooping around town, asking about them. They were in Casa Grande the other day. I do think some shit's gonna go down here pretty soon."

"Do they know about you?" the chief asked pointedly.

"I really don't know," Unser replied, "Guess we'll have to find out."

"Look, this mess is getting out of control. I know Tasker's a dickhead with how he handled the Lodi bombing, but what the Sons did was a complete overreaction, and God knows how many people in this town are gonna have to pay the price. I came out here precisely to get away from all that bullshit."

"Look, I know how you feel, Chief. None of us saw it coming, I know, but that ship has sailed. Blaming me or the club won't get us anywhere. Right now, we need to focus on the situation we have on our hands and think about how to best handle it."

"Wayne, I know I'm still considered new here, and all the Sons are from here their entire lives except for that one Irish fellow but I will not tolerate Charming turning into Oakland. If the club causes any trouble, I will hold you personally responsible."

"The club didn't bring this trouble on themselves, we both know that!" Unser said back, "They were the ones under attack to begin with! The Weathermen attacked us right here in Charming at the VFW post. They did what they had to do to protect themselves."

"So what did John Teller tell you when the two of you met just now?"

"The Mayans are coming for sure. The only reason they even know this is through undisclosed sources."

"Jesus Christ!"

"These random Mexicans from out of town have been at Casa Grande asking around about the Sons, and Marco gave them some disinformation. But some of the other intel the Mayans have, the ones they got from elsewhere, are quite accurate. I definitely think we should step up the police presence around Teller's garage, but also around the neighborhood Otto Moran lives in and Charming Auto. A couple eyes and ears in Casa Grande wouldn't hurt too. Too bad we don't got nobody on the force who speaks Spanish."

"I thought you all trust Marco, and he obviously knows Spanish and can translate."

"Yes, chief, but he can't be everywhere at once. He has an entire restaurant to run, and any Mayans might grow suspicious if he's constantly around. These people are lifelong criminals, even back when they lived in Mexico. it would be a good idea for you to use your connections in Oakland and their police files on the known major players in the Mayans MC."

"Don't they have dozens upon dozens of associates they can call upon to avoid suspicions. I'm sure they're mindful of their own members' criminal records."

"Yes, that's true," replied Unser, "The Mayans are allied with several illegal alien gangs, but they'll at least do part of this themselves. Remember their charter president's brother was killed. This payback's going to be personal."

SWAMP FOX TAVERN, DOWNTOWN CHARMING

Clay paid for the latest round of drinks and took advantage of the $6 domestic beer buckets, taking it back toward the end of the long bar where JT and Piney sat eating the typical pub grub of burgers and seasoned fries. Otto and Wally were shooting a game of pool with some other bar patrons while Keith and Thomas played darts. It was a typical weekend night out in Charming for the Sons, no indication that war was brewing on the horizon.

"Clay, you think it's really smart for us to be out like this, like nothing's out of the ordinary?" JT asked his friend as the final song in the jukebox stretch, a newer one by Charlie Daniels, finished playing.

"Of course," Clay said, "This is our home, JT. I ain't letting some fucking wetbacks push me around in my own fucking town. They don't even know where our clubhouse is. I'm sure Lenny's just real excited staying behind." JT had ordered that at least one member and two prospects be on the premises of the clubhouse at all times until the matter with the Mayans was resolved.

"We don't know how much they know about us."

"Look, we have a source in that club. They can't say the same about us, because you know why? We're a brotherhood. This club's like family. Something tells me those Mayan sons of bitches are really about the money and power. That's why we're better than them."

"That may be the case," JT said, "But they have other sources they can rely on. The thing about a small town like ours and most people knowing us is this. Most of the time it's a good thing, like with Marco for instance. We stick up for our own. But it also means that people who hate us also know where we live, where we work, who's in our family.

"Plus Lenny, Thomas, Wally, all the time they've spent in prison and knowing all those shady characters, we really don't know," Piney added. "Remember what happened in Vietnam with the Tet Offensive. I learned to never assume anything about the enemy."

"You know, guys, with all this talk of war, have any of you considered reaching out to the Mayans?"

"Reaching out? We all know they're already planning to come after us. Even some of the details regarding that!" Clay exclaimed with a perplexed expression on his face.

"But they think we're totally in the dark," JT pointed out. "Maybe explain our situation, maybe come to an understanding with them."

"And what kind of understanding might that be? Intentional or not, we killed Frisco Martinez's brother. Truth is, we probably killed more Mayans than there are members of our entire club. To them, proportional payback really would be killing every member of this club."

"I agree with Clay here, JT," said Piney, "Even if they're more reasonable, they would still demand that you surrender yourself to be killed. It'll most likely be a much slower death than what Derek Lawson suffered when the commies used that poisonous snake on him."

"What? Are you sure?" they suddenly heard the bartender exclaim. She was talking to several of her friends who went there regularly. There was more commotion.

"You heard about that too?" another man asked, putting down his Pabst Blue Ribbon can.

"What, did something happen?" JT asked.

"They're saying there's been a shooting in Eastborough somewhere on Falcon Drive! And someone set fire to Charming Auto and gunshots were also reported there too. The entire block's in flames according to what they're saying. Looks like Chicago two years ago."

Piney looked at JT with a look of resignation, while Clay's expression was one of steely resolve.

Clay spoke first. "So much for our little discussion there. It's already started."


	14. Standing Their Ground

CHAPTER 14: STANDING OUR GROUND

JULY 22, 1970

CHARMING AUTO, DOWNTOWN

Unlike Teller Automotive Repair, Charming Auto was located at the edge of Charming's downtown commercial district where Route 99 Business widened up from two lanes into four. It's prominent location and its large, brightly-lit signage might have been good for business, but it also made them easy to find for the individuals intending to target them on this warm summer night.

Unlike high-crime Oakland, there wasn't even a chain-link fence separating the garage and massive car dealership from the road. Frisco himself led the procession of Mayan bikers that rumbled onto the property along with a small van. Several Mayans disembarked from their bikes and the vehicles with gas cans, pouring gasoline along the ground beneath several rows of parked cars.

Frisco took out his East German pistol and fired through the glass façade of the showroom and offices while Jorge and Benito went for the service center, pouring out more gas. Frisco then took a firebomb and tossed it into the building, the flames quickly beginning to spread.

The Mayan leader motioned urgently for the men pouring the gasoline to hurry up. " _Vamo! Rapido!"_

The men hastened up their act and went back to the gathering of bikes in the middle of the dealership lot. Frisco then lit a match and looked around and his fellow bikers. " _Viva Los Mayans,"_ he said and dropped the match into the gasoline on the parking lot. He felt a sense of deep satisfaction as he saw the cars ignite one by one, the explosions tossing them one over another, then saw sparks explode like fireworks in the main building as the electrical components were burned and destroyed.

WAYNE UNSER'S RESIDENCE, EASTBOROUGH NEIGIBORHOOD, CHARMING

The four attackers came silently like snakes in the middle of the night. They had debated among themselves the best method of attack against their target, Wayne Unser, but in the end decided on stealth. It was stealth that they were best at, they decided. After all, that was how each and every one of them had entered this country.

Their leader spoke to them softly in Spanish. "Remember, if there's anyone or anything else in there, his bitch, his dog, his cat, even his fucking hamster, kill it. _Comprendes?"_

" _Si, vato."_

" _Muy bien._ Remember our plan _. Vamos, mojados!"_

The leader and another gangster went onto the front porch of the Victorian-style home while the other two fanned out across the darkened yard. So far, it was completely quiet except for the chirping of the crickets and the distant rumble of a freight train making its way through town. While some of the neighbors were probably still awake judging from the lights, none of them were outdoors of paying attention to Unser's property.

The lead attacker took out a silenced CZ52 Czechoslovakian pistol and fired two silenced shots into the doorknob, then pushed the front door open slowly, making sure it creaked as softly as possible. He then stepped into the foyer and motioned for his accomplice to follow. Everyone the Mayans had told them had checked out, they both thought to themselves. This gringo had no clue they were coming. It was almost cowardly, shooting a sorry excuse for a cop in his sleep, nothing to brag to his fellow Oakland gangbangers about, but it was an important job for his crew nonetheless.

They slowly made their way upstairs until they reached the master bedroom. The leader looked at his partner, who lifted his shirt and removed another Eastern Bloc handgun from his holster and opened the door. Each of them quickly opened fire, squeezing off a total of eleven bullets into the bed where they saw the shape of a man sleeping.

Suddenly, however, several gunshots from a Smith and Wesson 9mm rang out from underneath the bed and the lead attacker felt a sharp pain in his foot and tell uncontrollably for the floor, dropping the CZ 52 next to him. Unser took out his other pistol and felled the other attacker with a shot to the knee and another to the abdomen.

"Who the hell are you?" Unser demanded, pointing his gun. "Don't you dare make a move!"

"I bring message from Mayans, you fucking pig!" the man said in broken English with a hardened expression on his face. "You all dead!"

The gangbanger made a sudden move for his gun, but before his fingers could reach it, Unser discharged his Smith three times. Unser saw three puffs of blood rise up out of the gangster's chest before the man's sprawled body went limp in an expanding pool of blood. Unser had no idea who these guys were, though their arms and faces were covered with what were obviously gang tattoos.

Unser heard more shouting in Spanish from below as the two other thugs called out to check on their friends after hearing the commotion. Unser only had three bullets left in his clip and knew it would not be enough to hold them off, so he crawled along the ground toward his bedside drawer, where he kept more ammo. He was lucky that the attackers continued to fire rather than make a quick charge into the house.

He managed to reach the drawer despite another stream of bullets flying into the bedroom. As a cop, Unser already had several other clips ready and loaded one quickly into his pistol. He fired several shots through the window, then made a point to drop loudly to the floor. The two thugs outside took the bait.

"I think we got that piece of shit," the first one said, "Let's just go up there and make sure."

He had hardly finished the sentence when Unser jumped out of the window, landing directly on his shoulder and knocking him down the stairs from the porch. Before the second gangbanger could recover from his shock, Unser took his pistol and shot him down. The thug Unser had landed on realized his weapon was now out of reach and attacked Unser, grappling for his gun.

Unser took aim at the man's head but his gun jammed. The thug then grabbed Unser and slammed him into the grass, squeezing his throat and pulling out a dagger from his pocket and shouting a string of Spanish expletives. The illegal alien gritted his teeth as he moved the dagger toward Unser chest. With all the strength left in him, Unser kneed the thug in the groin and grabbed his hands.

For about ten seconds, Unser struggled to gain the upper hand and turn the dagger around, to not avail. Suddenly, Unser heard a deafening bang and saw a blinding flash of light, along with the thug's head literally exploding like a dropped watermelon, and he landed on the grass next to the man's headless torso. Unser felt frozen for what seemed like minutes, then he saw his elderly neighbor walk over holding his shotgun.

"Wow, you _really_ made some bad enemies, didn't you, Wayne?"

OTTO MORAN AND LENNY JANOWITZ'S RESIDENCE, CRESTWOOD NEIGHBORHOOD, 10:45 AM THE FOLLOWING MORNING

 _"Mira alguien?_ Do you see anyone?" Frisco asked Benito, who held a pair of binoculars. They were looking at the hilltop property of Otto Moran and Lenny Janowitz, whose cars were in the driveway and carport next to the colonial-style farmhouse, which lay on a sprawling homestead on top of two grassy hills. The Mayans had parked their bikes a few thousand feet off the road behind a small natural gas substation and taken up positions to observe their target before attacking.

"I see one man standing guard," Benito replied, zooming in. "I can't make out exactly who."

"It must be a member of the club" Frisco said, "They're too new to have prospects." Frisco said that with the confidence that while the Sons only had their eight members, the Mayans not only outnumbered them in terms of patched members, they had an entire army of prospects and allied street gangs like MH-11. No matter the price, they would make sure every last Son is dead so that Juan could rest in peace.

"Is there any way we can take out that bastard at the gate from a distance?" Frisco asked his men.

Benito shook his head and looked at Alejandro for his perspective.

"Not from here, _jefe_ ," Alejandro replied, "Their position is too high to give us a clear shot."

"Then we will attack with force the way we know how."

" _Jefe, con respecto_ , are you sure this is the right move? There are Sons who give in town, in places we can attack more easily," Benito said in a concerned voice. "Here it's not possible for us to completely surround our targets."

"The police are patrolling everywhere in the town center," Frisco replied, "And we still have not heard from our Honduran friends yet. The Sons are a small club. Whoever we capture will tell us the things we need to know to find the rest." Frisco then turned to the men and spoke louder. " _Estan listos, hermanos?"_

 _"Si!"_ shouted one of the prospects eager to prove himself as he lifted his kutte to reveal a large ammo belt.

Frisco stayed behind as eight bikes filled with Mayan members and prospects suddenly revved their engines and rode past the natural gas substation and up the road toward the Sons' property. Frisco then ordered Jorge to follow them as backup. As the charter President, Frisco considered himself too valuable to be placed in harm's way over something like this. In fact he had cursed his brother for heading to Concord himself, and didn't want Jorge and Benito involved either, but those men were too rash, their thirst for action and violence too fierce. It was the job of the prospects and the newest patched bikers to risk death, injury, and arrest for the club. He had already paid his dues back in Mexico and in the bloody two years it took for the Mayans to cement itself as one of Oakland's most powerful crime syndicates. He wished the others understood this.

Clay Morrow heard the Mayan bikes immediately and whistled to Wally, who was hidden behind an abandoned pickup truck on an overgrown part of the property. He aimed his AR-15 assault rifle down the driveway and opened up on full auto. The lead Mayan bike immediately crashed off the road, it's rider filled with more than a dozen bullet holes. The rest continued to come, speeding up and opening fire in his direction. Clay shot another Mayan, then a third before taking cover.

Despite three of their own dead, the Mayans' spirits were lifted by the fact that they stopped hearing the AR-15 and sped past the gate.

" _Cuidado,_ that _hueyputa_ may still be alive, hiding like a coward," Jorge said. He pointed to several other Mayans were had dismounted from their motorcycles. "Surround the house, make sure they do not escape." He then ordered several others, "Make sure our machine gun friend is dead. I want to see his fucking corpse."

The group looking for Clay had made it about ten feet into the tall grasses when Keith McGee detonated the homemade plastic explosives he had hidden in the rusty old pickup. It blew the two Mayans sideways in opposite directions. The Mayans trying to head to the back of the house suddenly turned around. While they were distracted, Clay and Wally both opened fire with their machine guns, mowing them down before they could get a single shot off.

" _Estos bastardos son locos!_ These bastards are crazy! I need backup!" Jorge radioed Frisco.

" _Que? Que esta?"_ Frisco screamed through the static. He had also heard the explosion and gunfire, and seen the small plume of smoke rising into the morning sky.

"They must have mined the place or something, or it was a grenade. I don't know! They are too well armed. We need more men."

Frisco cursed. If this was how it was going to go down, then so be it. They were way on the outskirts of Charming with the nearest police station over 20 miles away. If the neighbors had heard anything, there was a good chance they thought it was just some good ol' boys undergoing some militia training or something like often happened around these parts.

"Remember, we still have them surprised," Frisco said. "We'll take these gringo _chingadas de mierdas."_

Frisco and Jorge led nine more Mayans onto the property. By now, the guns in the yard had fallen silent, replaced by the eerie stillness punctuated only by the flickering flames burning from the explosion sites.

"There's no way our targets aren't up now. Move in on the house now!" ordered Frisco.

Jorge and two other Mayans fired several rounds into the first floor, focusing on the front door while others took positions around the several trees scattered around the large yard. Frisco had hoped there were more things to provide cover, but they had the upper hand, he told himself. He was going to flush Lenny, Otto, and anyone else in the house out and mow them down.

"Hold it! Stop firing!" Jorge yelled after about fifteen seconds of continuous automatic weapons fire directed at the house. Jorge listened for any voices of movements coming inside the house, perhaps the screams of wounded and dying men, but heard nothing.

"Be on the lookout if they try to escape like cowards!" he ordered his men. "We're moving in! Frisco, stay back!"

Jorge stepped aside as the others charged through the doorway, opening fire through the foyer and into the living room and dining room on both sides of it, tearing the furniture and window drapes to pieces. Seeing nothing, they then advanced further into the living room.

Lenny, hidden behind one of the couches, looked at his small handheld mirror and saw the reflection of the Mayan bikers inside his house. In fact they had placed several Kevlar vests against the back of the couch to protect them from the fusillade of bullets their attackers had just sent in their direction. He and JT suddenly rose up from behind the couch with their weapons ready to fire.

Lenny opened fire with his pump action shotgun, the explosive blast striking Jorge squarely in the chest and sending him flying out the window, shattering the glass in the process. JT took his M-16 and shot another one of the attackers in the chest and a third in the head. The final attacker tried to take cover in a doorway, bringing his AK-47 over and firing blindly in a panic, obviously taken aback by his comrades' sudden deaths.

JT shot the man's wrist, and his entire hand dropped to the ground along with his weapon. The Mayan screamed in pain and fear as JT and Lenny came over. He knew looking into their steely eyes that begging for mercy was useless and he simply let out a string of Mexican obscenities. Lenny's shotgun blast slammed him in the ground, his mangled body sliding backward for several feet into the foyer.

"Come on, let's see what else they got!" Lenny said, his adrenaline pumping. "Bring it on, motherfuckers! You gonna send more wetbacks in here?"

JT was more cautious and motioned for Lenny to go against the wall and advance slowly. JT saw another Mayan coming through his mirror and motioned for Lenny to be on alert. Several seconds later, the Mayan punk turned into the small hallway connecting the foyer with the living room, screaming at the top of his lungs like a madman, opening fire with a pistol in each hand. Yet the over-the-top bravado of the barrio was no match for JT's military experience or Lenny's homegrown, small town American training.

By then, JT and Lenny were in the bathroom just off the hallway, a room the Mayan had no idea existed. Both of them heard the Mayan coming down the hall and opened fire through the wall. The Mayan was dead on the ground, his body a heap of torn flesh, before he knew what hit him.

Outside, the two Mayans approaching the back of the house were immediately mowed down by Piney and Clay firing their assault rifles, who had taken a new position in the tall grass.

Frisco was approaching the house when he saw Jorge's body fly out through the broken window. He knew from that moment, and from the sudden rattling of the Sons' weapons, that his enemies had been waiting for them. It was basically a reverse ambush.

Frisco turned his weapon toward the grass and opened fire as he began to retreat, ordering his men to do the same. JT emerged on the front porch and fired at Frisco, but the Mayan leader was moving too quickly and the bullets impacted a few feet away from him. Frisco returned fire, but more out of defiance than any realistic expectation of killing JT at this point.

Less than a minute later, the Mayans were back on Highway 19, passing some directional signs for the Wahewa Indian Reservation.

"We could not even get Jorge's body! This was…." Benito wanted to say that it was worse than Juan Martinez, whose body at least was recovered from the Sunvalley Mall and given a proper burial, but he corrected himself given that he was speaking to his gang leader. "Almost as bad as what happened to Juan."

"Don't worry. I have another way of getting to these _gabachos,_ but it will be ugly, even by our standards. And I will need you with me on this, Benito."

"Anything, _jefe,"_ Benito responded.

JULY 26, 1970

CASA GRANDE MEXICAN RESTAURANT, CHARMING

Tuesdays were long days for proprietor and chef Marco Rodriguez. It was the only day of the week where he worked open to close, 13 hours total, but he was in high spirits as he finished checking the cash register and the credit card receipts. It had been a profitable day. When Marco first left his friend's restaurant in San Diego to open his own place in Charming, people thought he was nuts. Folks out there could never appreciate Mexican food, they said. However, the residents of Charming had in fact made Casa Grande one of the most popular restaurants in town, the kind of place locals went to celebrate birthdays, weddings, and graduations, even high school proms.

The knock on the door wasn't too audible over the sound of the dishwasher cleaning up the remaining plates, but Marco still heard it. Interesting, he thought. Sure, some customers who forgot the business hours came up to a half hour after closing, but it was now 11 PM already.

"Marco it's me!" a voice called. Marco saw it was one of the cooks from the kitchen who had just been taking the trash out to the dumpster. If this had been San Diego, he would have looked at the footage from the security camera, and had he done so, he would have seen Frisco Martinez holding a pistol to the cook's side. He would have taken out the Beretta 9 mm pistol he kept in the restaurant at all times. All this time in Charming had made him complacent, and it was a fateful mistake instead.

The moment Marco pulled the door open, the cook was shoved forward into the restaurant by Frisco. Benito and Oscar followed with their handguns drawn. Frisco then raised his pistol and shot the cook three times in the chest, the blood staining his white uniform. Benito quickly grabbed Marco's son Paul, who was a bartender there, while Oscar stormed into the kitchen and forced the dishwasher to put his hands on his head. Oscar then turned off the faucet and scanned the kitchen.

"Nobody else back here!" he called out in Spanish to Frisco as the Mayans herded the others into the kitchen. Benito made sure the front door was locked and that the lights to the dining room were off.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Marco asked in Spanish, breathing heavily. He looked over at Paul who was shaking in fear.

Frisco lifted part of his shirt to reveal the Mayans tattoo on his chest. "A couple weeks ago, some of my friends came here to your place. They told you about what the Sons of Anarchy had done, and asked you for some information about that club."

"I…I told them everything I know!" Marco told Frisco, "Please, you must believe me!"

Frisco spat in his face and nodded to Benito, who shot the dishwasher in the back of the head and pushed his body forward into the floor.

 _"Tu eres un mentiroso de mierda!_ You're a fucking liar!" Frisco shouted. "And you are a traitor to our people, protecting these gringo friends of yours. It embarrasses me to see a fellow countryman like you."

"You _mojados_ are the ones who embarrass me," Marco replied, "And by the way, I'm an American now."

Oscar sucker punched him in the stomach then grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the row of plates and cups along the wall, shattering several of them. "I would watch your mouth if I were you, especially given that your son's life lies in your hands, Chef," he said in a dark, threatening tone.

Frisco then grabbed Paul and jammed his hot pistol into his back and made him take a seat in a stool and pressed his face against a metal surface of the kitchen's salad preparation area. "Just like the gringos here, you have no respect for our club," he said. "When our people came in for a friendly visit, you should been fucking honest with them. Then you could have avoided this mess."

"Please, _senor_!" Marco pleaded, looking at the pool of blood that had formed around the dishwasher's lifeless body.

"I…." he looked at the Mayans Oakland patch tattooed on Frisco's chest, next to another tattoo of the a traditional prayer for Santa Muerte. "I'm not familiar with Oakland. I should have respected you more. Please don't hurt my son."

Frisco gave Marco a nasty smirk. "That depends on the next words that come out of your mouth, _tu hijo de puta._ No more lies! You will tell me every last thing you know about the Sons of Anarchy and their other friends, and you better start giving me the kind of good information because I've already run out of patience with you."

JULY 27, 1970

"If they went after you knowing you're a cop, what makes you think I'm safer with you?" JT asked Unser as they turned onto Crestwood Trail Drive, a major road connecting JT's neighborhood with downtown Charming.

"They won't go after me again so soon, not in a marked police car," Unser replied. He had insisted on picking JT up and driving him to Teller Automotive Repair this entire week.

"What exactly happened at Charming Auto?" JT asked. "I know that was meant for us."

"Oh really?" Unser almost scoffed. "You got something to say about that? Using your old man's competition as bait to see what kind of shit the Mayans might pull around here?"

"Hey that's not on us, I swear. Bunch of Mayans showed up at Casa Grande asking around. Marco did us a favor and diverted attention. We didn't tell him to do that, nor would we pressure our local business owners that way. Remember, this is our town. All we want is for everyone here to be able to live our lives in peace, just like you."

Unser heard his beeper go off and answered it. "Jesus Christ," he said after a while. "Dammit." He looked over at JT. "Speak of the devil, there's a major crime scene at Casa Grande restaurant. Multiple bodies." Unser immediately turned on the flashing lights and sirens and ignored the turn across the railroad crossing toward Teller Automotive, continuing to speed through downtown instead.

CASA GRANDE MEXICAN RESTAURANT

Nearly the entire Charming police force was already parked in front of Casa Grande Mexican Restaurant. The entire shopping center had been cordoned off by the authorities, and forensics investigators from the San Joaquin County coroner's office were also combing through the restaurant. Many people from the surrounding homes and businesses had gathered to gawk at the crime scene and talk among themselves about what was going on.

"Chief!" Unser called out as he saw Ryan Hancock coming out of the restaurant. Unser's partner Tincher also accompanied the chief.

"I came as soon as I got the news. Why wasn't I notified earlier?" Unser asked.

"We figured you were still in shock over the attack at your own house," Tincher said, "You did need those days off. I would if I'd gone through what you did. Chief and I figured we could secure the crime scene overnight. Didn't want you investigating this while you were still feeling rattled."

"Hey Wayne, he's not allowed in here!" Hancock said, motioning toward JT.

"I'm certain this has to do with the Sons," Unser said, "He might be able to tell you more but could you please fill us in on what happened here?"

Hancock led them into the main dining room, where several officers were gathered, and into the kitchen. In addition to the dishwasher and cook, Marco and Paul had also been shot execution style.

"Lord, no," JT said softly. The events would also turn Charming upside down. Marco had been a well-established member of the community, whose restaurant sponsored civic events and stock car races and provided jobs for countless local residents. Paul was a promising young man who was passionate about learning his father's trade and opening his own location in Lodi.

"Well it looks like a robbery," Hancock told them. "They emptied out all of the cash registers and the entire safe. Those guys also obviously knew what they were doing. All the security tapes have been removed, and we haven't been able to recover any fingerprints. Forensics says the weapons are black market goods from East Germany, but half the criminals out there are using them."

"Including the Mayans MC in particular. The perpetrators also took the entire safe?" JT asked.

"Yeah, maybe they couldn't open it so they took it with them to their basement or whatever where they probably have the tools to open it," Unser said. "A safe that size takes at least two, maybe three guys to move."

"That's what they want you to think, that's its a simple robbery. I know there's more to it than that."

"And you think we need to look at the Sons angle," said Hancock, "JT, what's Marco Rodriguez's involvement with the club? Any connections with Paul Rodriguez or these other dead guys?"

"They're just our friends. We look out for each other."

"Don't bullshit me, Mr. Teller," Hancock said. "Wayne here's convinced it has to do with the club. We had about 2 murders a year in Charming for the past ten years. Now you all organize your little MC, and we already have 4 cold blooded killings right here, plus the mess at Unser's house and over a million dollars worth of property damage right on the main drag, worst case of arson in the entire history of this town. I don't think I'll be wrong to predict that as popular as you and your family are in this town, that can change quickly if this shit doesn't stop."

"It's going to stop alright, Chief," JT replied, "I'll make sure of it."

"And what the hell's that supposed to mean? You and your club are going to do some cowboy vigilante shit like you're Clint Eastwood or something?"

"I'll do what we have to in order to protect ourselves. We have a legal right to do that when these scumbags are coming after us because they evidently want to expand their drug business into Charming." JT had obviously made up the last part, even though the Mayans and the street gangs associated with them would no doubt jump at the opportunity to sell drugs anywhere.

Both Unser and JT remained silent until they walked down to the other end of the strip mall, out of earshot of anyone else.

"And what about the shit that went down at Otto Moran's place? You said almost a dozen dead bikers on that property? Obviously nobody called that in…"

"It was on the outskirts of town, Wayne," JT replied, "Only one of the neighbors heard anything, and we had one of those early morning shooting practices like we really do have from time to time."

"This is crazy, JT. And the bodies? I'm sure you took care of them too?"

"We cremated them on site. Or maybe disposed of them on the Wahewa reservation which would be safer, given y'all don't have jurisdiction in Indian country. Keep you guessing so there's some kind of deniability for you." JT looked at Unser like that was a favor he should appreciate.

"For all of our sakes, I sure hope you got a good plan for that," Unser muttered, shaking his head.

 _An end montage for this chapter shows the police cleaning up the crime scene at the restaurant, the JT and the Sons at the table in the clubhouse meeting over the recent events, Thomas being comforted by his girlfriend Megan in his home as he also recovers from his injuries sustained at the mall shootout, Special Agent Tasker drinking at a bar while a newscast about the Mexican restaurant killings goes on above him, Professor Rogers giving another lecture to a new group of students in UC Berkeley many of whom are wearing anti-military shirts, Deanna Lunsik in the county jail, and the Mayans riding through the streets of Oakland with the hearses of the few bodies they were able to recover before leaving Otto and Lenny's property. This montage is set to "35 MPH Town" by Toby Keith._

 _Author's Note: Like I mentioned earlier, a lot of the musical choices will come from modern years as long as they fit the mood. As I write this story, I can't help but note all the parallels between this time period and today's world._


	15. Currents of Dissent

_Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in updates. Very busy with real life but once again I do have the story planned out. Also got distracted writing my "deleted scenes" for "13 Hours" and "Hillary's America" which features events as I picture them happening in the State Department as the Benghazi attack unfolded._

CHAPTER 15: CURRENTS OF DISSENT

MAYANS CLUBHOUSE, OAKLAND

"First, in the middle of our troubles, we still have something to celebrate," Frisco said, looking around his table then speaking to Alejandro. "Let him in."

Alejandro opened the door and motioned for Oscar to enter. _"Andale, mi hermano."_

Oscar stepped forward into the room for the first time. As a Mayan prospect, he had access to most of Plaza Maya, including the strippers who doubled as prostitutes and the endless supply of the drugs brought across the border by the club and its associates, but he was never allowed into the chapel, the club's inner sanctum, until now. Upon hearing Frisco's words, Alejandro knew that his time had finally come.

"When we were in the kitchen at Casa Grande, I saw how you pulled the trigger without hesitation when the _hueyputas_ tried to bullshit us. And you did not even flinch when you killed Chef Marco's son."

"I was honored that you gave me this opportunity, _presidente Frisco_ " Oscar replied respectfully. "I knew I could not let you down. And that fucking coconut had it coming."

Most of the Mayans gathered around the table cheered that comment and cursed the owners of Casa Grande Mexican Restaurant for siding with the Sons of Anarchy and feeding false information to the Oakland gang members the Mayans had sent to Charming.

"The loss of our brother Jorge has left his position vacant. You have demonstrated the _cajones_ and _machismo_ this club needs and have proven yourself worthy of a place at this table. We have selected you to take Jorge's place as the Master at Arms."

Earlier in the meeting, Frisco had appointed Alejandro to take Juan's place as Vice President, a position that had been unfilled for months. Now Oscar would take his place as the master at arms. Benito continued to be the charter's secretary.

 _"Gracias, jefe._ I will do anything for this club. I will give my life for it. _"_

"I know you will, Oscar," Frisco said before getting Oscar's half-brother Alejandro to do the honors. Alejandro took a pocketknife and cut out the prospect patch and replaced it with one that read "Master at Arms" in Spanish. "Congratulations. You are now one of our full members with all the privileges I allow."

After the toasts of tequila were completed, Frisco looked around the table with a serious expression on his face. "Now, we will discuss what's next in this war."

MAYANS OAKLAND CLUBHOUSE / GERALDO RIVERA'S RESIDENCE, LAGUNA NIGUEL, ORANGE COUNTY

Mayans National President Geraldo Rivera greeted Pablo Hinojosa with a warm handshake and an embrace as the latter was whisked right through the heavily armed security at Geraldo's hillside villa. The other Mayan bikers from Pablo's San Diego charter offered to stand outside as a show of force but Geraldo told them to remain at a distance. People in this upper middle class community didn't like _that_ kind of security, Geraldo said quite frankly. He did employ several professional looking armed security guards, all of them ex-Mexican Army soldiers. All this made him feel like he was in the big leagues.

"Thank you for the invitation, Geraldo," Pablo said as they walked through the formal dining room and out toward the patio, where several Pacifico beers were waiting for them. While Mexican décor was very prominent in the house and the surrounding grounds, Pablo saw that it also had many Anglo influences in its furniture and in some of the paintings, some of which even included pastoral European landscapes, and a fountain with a Roman-style sculpture in the middle. Maybe this was Geraldo's effort to appear classy, he thought.

"I assume you're starting to share the doubts I've always had about our _compadres_ up in Oakland."

Geraldo took a puff on his Cuban cigar. "Unfortunately, yes. But remember, I am in charge of this conversation with Frisco. You are simply here to get a better picture of the situation, and maybe confirm the concerns you brought up during our recent meeting."

"Of course, _presidente."_

Soon enough, the telephone rang in Geraldo's study. Pablo was taken aback at the design of this sleek, modern suburban home, which was different than anything he had entered before. When he left the shantytowns of Tijuana all those years ago, this was the American Dream he had envisioned, and Geraldo had achieved it, albeit through the criminal kind of entrepreneurship. This was the office where so much of the national leadership's business was conducted, no different than the kind of thing a banker would have in his home.

Frisco Martinez was on the other end calling from Plaza Maya, where he sat alone in his cluttered office where the finances of the restaurant and club were also managed. "Geraldo, I understand you wanted to speak to me, before the next national meeting."

" _Si,"_ Geraldo said. "I'm going to get straight to the point, Frisco. The national charter is very concerned about the events in your area. It may be even worse than if you had never gone to war with the Sons in the first place."

"We have discovered more things about the Sons, more things they think are secret but aren't. I will have them defeated!"

"I am not finished yet," Geraldo said, silencing Frisco. "Many of the other charters who have contributed men to your war in the spirit of brotherhood, particularly the Las Vegas, Dallas, and Denver charters are questioning whether it had been wise to do so. What has this club gained from these sacrifices? And all the money spent on the weapons. "

That's the mentality of the American government in Vietnam, not willing to fight to the bitter end regardless of the cost like the communists were, Frisco thought but bit his tongue. He was already in poor standing with the national leaders and didn't want to make things even worse for himself.

"We…we have kept the Sons on their toes. They are all changing their routines. They can only take so much. I know it, Geraldo."

"And you're sure you can outlast them? The last thing I want to mention is that some of the street gangs you call upon in Oakland have gone over your head and spoke directly to us about reconsidering their cooperation. They tell me it is bringing too much heat from the police…."

"Those are fucking lies that they're telling you! The _policia_ are afraid to enter the barrios we control! The Hondurans dare go above us?"

"You will not interrupt me again, Frisco."

Frisco gritted his teeth. _"Lo siento, presidente._ This situation…"

"Your brother mattered, Frisco, but I can't let your revenge come at much further expense to this club, our finances, and our relationships on the streets. I want you to put yourself in my shoes. This is affecting our recruitment efforts, even all the way in Dallas. I understand you actually have the _cajones_ to ask for more men and material?"

"Please, I need one more chance," Frisco almost pleaded in desperation. This conversation was going worse than he had feared. "I promise you, I will succeed very soon in my revenge. I feel the blessings of Santa Muerte still upon us. She has only been testing our dedication."

"We will give you half of what you requested, and we have convinced the Hondurans to still cast their lot with you, for now." Geraldo stressed the last two words there. "This is your final chance and it's more than you deserve, to tell you the truth. Many of our charters have already met today and we have come to a decision. Good, I'm glad you didn't interrupt me this time. In case you wonder why you were not part of this discussion, we felt that would have been…what do they say in business? A conflict of interest, for you to have a part in this vote. If these problems up there repeat themselves, we have decided to withdraw our support for the war. Do you understand this clearly?"

Frisco was at a sudden loss for words.

"Now _is_ the time to speak, Frisco," Geraldo said, looking up at Pablo.

" _Si,_ I understand, and I appreciate the help you have offered me."

"Good, now I hope our next conversation is more pleasant."

"Our next conversation will be when I bring John Teller's bloody kutte into the national meeting."

Geraldo ignored the last part and hung up the phone.

"I've never had to have a talk like that before," he said to Pablo. "Thank you for the advice you have given me. You have taught me a lot, and I value your input greatly."

"I'm only here to help you, Geraldo," Pablo said. "You see, people like Frisco, their heart may be in the right place, but all they know is the village and the streets. That's what sets us apart. We are businessmen. That is why we're sitting in this beautiful house while Frisco will never leave the barrio. Trust me. If he can't accept the new direction we're taking this club, he will have to be left behind."

Geraldo smiled and looked around at all the things he could never have acquired south of the border. "You know, sometimes I do _really_ fucking love this country."

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

"The Chief just got off the phone with Oakland PD about the guys who paid me that visit at home," Unser said to JT as they walked to the back of the police station, smoking a cigarette.

"And?" JT asked, hoping there was something useful.

"Only one of them had any kind of records whatsoever. He was a Honduran national whose tourist visa expired four years ago. We believe the others are illegal immigrants who had managed to stay completely off the grid. The markings on all the dead men identified them as members of the MH-11 street gang, stands for Mara Hondurana, or Honduran crew. MH-11 works closely with the Mayans MC both on the street and in prison."

"Drugs, guns?"

"Both," Unser said. "Think the Mayans partnership with the Weather Underground, just on a far bigger scale. Thanks to their Mayan connections, MH-11 is now one of the most well armed gangs in Oakland, and they're able to expand the narcotics they're selling on the street corners. At the same time, their members protect one another in prison. We believe in the case of what happened here, the Mayans used them as hit men since they needed extra muscle and some deniability. They've done that in the past."

"How powerful is MH-11, and what other gangs have an allegiance to the Mayans?" JT asked. This was definitely not good. It seemed like no matter how many the Sons killed, the Mayans could throw more men at them. Kind of like the North Vietnamese, JT thought darkly.

"Who knows?" Unser replied. "There's another thing. That agent, Tasker, he's visiting me just about every other day now, trying to get updates from me and the chief. He's also threatening to attend the next city council meeting."

"He's not even a Charming resident. Nobody needs to even let that bastard speak! Plus, most of us are quite satisfied with the law enforcement we have right now, officer."

"Real funny," Unser said with a smirk as he took a sip of coffee. "He's going to be waving his badge around, and the council may give him a few minutes as a courtesy. Going to be a lot of bullshit about how the club is a bad influence on the town and is responsible for all this violence, asking them to turn y'all in."

"Then he obviously doesn't know a thing about how we do things out here. This ain't fucking San Francisco. Here in small town USA, here in _Charming_ at least, we stick up for one another."

"I know, JT, but all he needs is a few people on his side and if this bloodbath doesn't stop, nothing's guaranteed anymore. They may even force the state to disband our entire department and have us absorbed into San Joaquin County sheriff's jurisidction, or even send the state police here. We need this handled."

DANA POINT, ORANGE COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

Pablo Hinojosa and the other members of the Mayans' San Diego charter made their typical stop in Dana Point on their way back from the meeting in Los Angeles. This time, he and his crew stopped at a Del Taco location on Pacific Coast Highway offering a partial view of the azure waters of Doheny State Beach. Pablo and his secretary, Marcus Alvarez, took a seat in the corner of the Cal-Mex fast food restaurant after getting their orders from the counter. It was a different world than Montebello, surrounded by vacationing families, many with beach towels, swim trunks and Panama hats.

The Mayans' kuttes were enough to intimidate the other customers enough so that nobody sat within earshot of them. Marcus practically grew up in the club. He was born in Juarez but was smuggled across the border as a young child and therefore identified the barrios of San Diego as his home. While San Diego's Hispanic ghettos were relatively tame compared to those in many other cities, his father was killed in a drive-by-shooting during a particularly violent Cinco de Mayo weekend, a time when the various gangs all ran into other as the barrios celebrated the holiday. His mother sought justice a little too hard and was murdered a year later in a crime yet to be solved. Following this, Marcus was taken in by the Mayans charter that was widely feared and respected in the neighborhood.

"I see that you're worried, _mano,_ " Marcus said in a mix of English and Spanish as he unwrapped his burrito and took a sip of his Mountain Dew. "I honestly think Geraldo was very receptive to your message, or as much as he could be in such a public setting. And you were telling me the phone call went pretty good too."

"Yes, Geraldo and I see eye to eye," Pablo said, taking a deep breath and glancing out the window at the Pacific Ocean. "Some charters still sympathize with Frisco, especially the guys from El Paso."

"I can't say I don't understand what Frisco's going through," Marcus admitted. "To lose a brother in such a way, even if like you say it's because of the company that they chose to keep."

"Yes, I know," Pablo said, "But while revenge is important, survival is more important than that. Frisco and the rest of the Oakland charter may be willing to die, but we can't let them take this entire club down with them."

"Maybe it will end soon," said Marcus, "There are only so many of the Sons. Yes, many of them are American soldiers, but this isn't the army that fought on D-Day. They can't even defeat the fucking commie pinkos in Vietnam."

Pablo shook his head forcefully. "No, Marcus, no. You're making the same mistake, underestimating them like Frisco did. I'm sure Frisco thought the same when he got into that war. America _is_ the strongest army in the world. If you look at each individual battle in Vietnam, the Americans have won every time. The only reason these soldiers haven't completely destroyed the enemy is because the government won't let them. Look what they've done even after the government and the American people stabbed them in their backs."

"There's no way Frisco will ever get it," Pablo continued. "His actions threaten not only his charter, but our club on a national level This is supposed to be the underworld, we are supposed to operate in the shadows and attract as little attention from the authorities as possible, not turn Charming into Saigon."

"So you feel there needs to new leadership in Oakland."

"Yes, and I have someone in mind. You, Marcus."

"Excuse me?" Marcus said in shock.

"Yes," Pablo said. "You're the kind of leader we need in this club. You know the streets, but you also know the system, and you understand how things work in America while Frisco only understands the old country. Here in San Diego, it will be many years before I retire, and as you know, there are several others in the line of succession. If you take over in Oakland, you will be the President."

OPEN RANGE STEAKHOUSE, CHARMING

It wasn't clear why Open Range Steakhouse decided to go for a West Texas theme given that the Central Valley itself was known for its cattle ranching. Maybe its owners just wanted to stand out from everything else in Charming. No matter what happened in his relationship with Megan, Open Range would always have a special spot in Thomas's heart as this was where he had first met her. Tonight they had actually wanted to go to a new sports bar, but that place was packed since the Raiders were playing the Baltimore Colts in one of the most highly anticipated games of the year.

"So you do come here even when you're not working!" Thomas said with a grin. It felt good to be here with her, where his gentle side could come out.

"Of course! Becca here always hooks me up with awesome discounts!" Megan said with a smile, motioning toward the blonde bartender working tonight. Thomas thought about the night they had first met right here, when she was getting a few drinks after work in her own restaurant. The fact that she was of half Wahewa descent and had lived on the Indian reservation helped keep the conversation going, as Thomas mentioned his familiarity with the place due to his dealings with the marijuana growers there.

"Still can't believe we met here when you weren't even waiting on me," Thomas said.

"I know!" she said with a happy smile.

Megan greeted Becca pleasantly as the bartender poured gave them some mixed cocktails. "Definitely your lucky night."

She took a sip and made a face at Becca, pretending to not like it. "Seriously, though, this shit's really been crazy here lately. I'm worried about you. And there's already rumors about the Feds getting involved here which is gonna be bad for both Charming and the reservation."

"What rumors?"

"There's been agents from various agencies on the reservation lately, or at least trying to enter, also rumors of our current BIA agents being replaced by a new team from out of state. I think they're going to try to use the marijuana operation against the tribe if Raging Bull tries to apply for a casino license."

A tribe in Minnesota was currently fighting a case in the federal courts that could lead to the legalization of casino gambling on Indian reservations nationwide.

"I thought the reservation's sovereign territory and the fucking men in suits don't have any authority there."

"Look, Thomas, you should know better than anyone that those bastards from Washington don't give a damn. And now with the Mexicans showing up all the way out here, that's even more government attention. Now I know why they call it the alphabet soup. All of those people are corrupt and can't be trusted. But what's going on with the Mexicans?"

"We certainly dealt them a good one, didn't we?" Thomas glanced at the TV and took a sip of his Coors Light.

"No, Thomas I'm serious about this. Now Frisco Martinez has even more reason for revenge. When is this going to end?"

Thomas remained silent, hoping she would change the subject, but she repeated herself. "Do you even see an end in sight?"

"I really don't know," he said as the bartender came with their appetizer order of potato skins loaded with bacon bits and cheddar cheese along with two Caesar salads.

"That's really reassuring," Megan said with some sarcasm in her voice. Thomas could tell that she was stressed over the recent events, and that it was beginning to put a strain in their relationship.

"Look, Meg, you're the one who further vouched for me with the tribe and got them to invest more in our operation."

"But that's just our seed money to get the hell out of here. Look, you and I have both been screwed over by the world. We weren't given the opportunities Charming's good ol' boy network has but we were both clear that this isn't the life we want. That's why I left the reservation, remember? Because I wanted more than that. I'm out here trying my best to make an honest living, because I don't want our kids to grow up like we did."

Conditions on the reservation certainly were harsh, both the federal government's shameful history of forcibly removing the Wahewa from their ancestral lands in the Lake Tahoe region to make way for white settlers in the 1849 California Gold Rush and the subsequent corruption and mismanagement of the BIA. Thomas himself was eventually disadvantaged, growing up with a father who was in and out of prison, who taught him more about crime than about anything legitimate. His mother had drank herself to death when he was a child.

Maybe that was partly why he identified with Megan so much when he first met her here as she was getting a drink after clocking out one night. At first, he was also desperate for legitimacy, but now, in the middle of this war he wasn't sure if it could ever become a reality. But he had to be optimistic.

"When this is over, we'll take part of the Mayans' business and in a few years I'll be out." Obviously he had not discussed the spoils of war with JT, but it had been running in his mind, as well as in the minds of several of the other club members, unknown to JT.

"And JT will just let you leave, just like that? We're talking about a biker gang here."

"Once this Mexican business is handled, and we finish our revenge against the Weathermen, he might disband the club himself. And actually, knowing JT as I do, he'll probably let me sit out that last part." There was something else JT had never said before. He had initially thought about getting the club to take over the drug distribution business from the Weathermen in Berkeley, but now maybe some of the Mayan operations would be more profitable. Yes, he hated the Weathermen and what they did to the soldiers, but he had ulterior motives for joining the club, as did several of the others.

"I just don't want you to get hurt," Megan said, her voice softening up. "I don't regret going legitimate at all. It's what my parents would have wanted me to do. I make decent money here and do enjoy coming to work most days and I've already been able to afford my own apartment in town. If the tribe does get a casino, I can be a cocktail waitress and make even more, save up enough money to finish my degree. I just don't think it's worth it for you to take all these risks, Thomas. You and me, together, that's all that really matters. I'm happy with what we have."

Thomas didn't want to have this conversation right now so he simply nodded. "It will all be over in a few weeks, and we live happily ever after. I promise." He ordered another shot and they placed their orders for their entrees. He leaned over and kissed her, Becca the bartender cheering her friend on. "Let's not worry about that right now and just have a good time tonight."

OPEN RANGE STEAKHOUSE PARKING LOT

Benito Chavarria and three MH-11 gangsters left the restaurant about twenty seconds after Thomas and Megan closed out their tab and paid for their dinner up at the bar. Benito and the Hondurans sat at different places in the steakhouse, with all of them keeping an eye on the couple from different angles even as they pretended to be caught up in their own conversations or on the college football game playing on the TV.

Unknown to them, JT, who had disguised himself in a sports jersey and a Las Vegas baseball cap knew they were watching. It was the two Hondurans who sat at a table in the bar section that caught his attention first. They acted too excited about the game on TV with their eyes glued on the footage coming in from Baltimore's Memorial Stadium. The _futbol_ that Hondurans were obsessed about wasn't the American kind, and their reactions to the touchdowns and tackles were always a few seconds after the crowd around them, like they didn't really know what was going on yet wanted to blend in. He then saw their eyes constantly dart back and forth to where Thomas and Megan were sitting.

He also saw that the two men made contact with Benito and the third Honduran gangster, who sat in a booth beneath some clichéd Texas decorations. He sent one of the prospects in to snap some secret pictures and quickly showed them to Unser, who was parked a block away in his official police vehicle.

"So this spy shit's really paying off?" Unser asked.

"They're not KGB quality stuff, I can tell you that much," JT said, telling him about his observations of the guys watching the football game. "Shit, the commie infiltrators in Saigon were better than that." He handed Unser the pictures. "Hopefully you're able to tell me who these guys are."

Unser looked at them and compared them with police files provided by his friends in Oakland. "I'll be damned! This one's a big fish. His name's Benito Chavarria, he's the Secretary of the Mayans' Oakland charter!"

"Shit, right under our noses. They have some balls coming right here to our own. They're watching Thomas and his old lady, they got some shit planned. I know it. Shhh, they're coming."

JT looked toward the entrance of the restaurant and saw Benito and the other Mayans emerge from the front doors past a gaggle of late night diners still streaming in. He got back into his car, where Piney and Clay were already waiting while Otto was waiting outside.

"You sure you don't need the backup?" Otto asked, keeping his voice down.

"No, we got this. Just make sure Thomas and his old lady get home safe."

Otto nodded and walked toward the side of the neon-lit parking lot where the motorcycle spots were located, putting on his helmet.

JT saw Benito and his men glanced several times toward Thomas and Megan before getting into their own vehicle.

"Those other bastards will probably try to give us trouble," Clay said, "Better we take care of them elsewhere. Pretty sure another shootout in the middle of a busy parking lot's going to be the straw that breaks the camel's back."

"No, the moment we grab our targets, they'll have a new priority, remember," JT said. He still can't believe how far he'd gone, from planning the logistics of military operations in Vietnam to street ambushes in Charming.

Back in the jungle, he was fighting for his country and to make the world safe for democracy as Washington had presented it, until the federal government realized that going to war might not have been worth it and were more than ready to abandon the soldiers fighting it. Here, this fight was personal, for his own survival and the survival of his closest friends.

Benito and two of the Mayans got into his car as the others got into an old pickup truck with the instruction to maintain contact and pick up Thomas's tail in case Benito himself was lost in the traffic or had to pull over to avoid suspicion from Thomas or Megan.

"I still can't believe you tried to eat that fucking steak without a knife, Eduardo!" Benito said to one of the others in the car.

"Well, thank you for teaching me the American ways and the right way to eat gringo food, you fucking _gabacho_ ," the Mayan named Eduardo said, poking fun at the fact that Benito wasn't sufficiently Mexican enough in their opinion due to his American upbringing in Los Angeles. "I can't believe the gringos eat this shit, and to think my bitch was going to cook some carne asada tonight. Being called away from her _carne asada_ for this American junk."

"And she'll have it waiting for you when you get home," Benito said with a hint of impatience at Eduardo's complaining. Joining the Mayans, Eduardo knew he could be called away at a moment's notice, especially since their charter was in the middle of a gang war. Benito kept his eyes on Thomas and Megan as they walked over to his vehicle. They saw him open the passenger door for her in a chivalrous move.

"Ah, what a gentleman," Eduardo scoffed. It was his old lady in Oakland who doted on him and catered to his every whim, not the other way around. This was the opposite of machismo, he thought, and it made him disrespect the Americans even more. A real man would never behave in such a fashion, Eduardo thought to himself.

"Even that pathetic gringo has a bitch, Benito," said the Honduran gangster in the passenger seat, "Maybe you need to find one. Then maybe you'll be a little less uptight. Or maybe not."

Suddenly, there was a crashing sound and the passenger site window shattered as a fist came through and punched the Honduran in the side of the head. The same happened in the other windows too. Benito, who was in the driver's seat, and Eduardo who was in the back were also taken aback as they saw the figures of JT and Clay outside the vehicle, with Clay preparing to strike again. The final Mayan in the back also surrendered quickly.

The Honduran, however had far quicker reflexes and reached for the gun in his leather jacket, however Clay took a pocketknife and slashed his throat several times. The man gagged as blood splattered against the windshield. JT cursed silently to himself but at least the Honduran didn't manage to squeeze off any shots. He looked up, praying that the sound of the breaking car windows didn't attract any attention. Fortunately the sound of the music coming from the establishment seemed to have covered it up. In fact, several patrons were drunkenly singing along to "To See My Angel Cry" by Conway Twitty on the outside deck as they drank more of their beers.

JT pointed his gun at Benito as Piney aimed his own weapon at Eduardo and the other Mayan's heads. "These are both silenced, so I won't hesitate to kill you both right now if you try to make a move like your _amigo_ here.

"You won't live long to regret this, you fucking imbecile," Benito said.

"Well at least this one speaks American," Clay said derisively.

" _Chinga tu madre, cabron,"_ Eduardo said defiantly and spat in Piney's face. "Fuck your mother!"

Piney grabbed his head and slammed it against the door, almost knocking Eduardo out, the man moaning incoherently in Spanish.

"You want to play more games with us, Benito?" Clay said. Benito's eyes widened at the mention of his name.

"Yeah, we know you. You know a lot about you and your little wetback buddies here, crawling all over our town."

"What do you want from me?" Benito asked, some of the macho cockiness gone.

JT and Piney removed the dead Mayan's body from the passenger seat and placed it in the back next to Eduardo. "I want you to drive," JT said.

 _Author's Note: Hope y'all noted the thing about the Baltimore Colts playing the game back in 1970. How they left Baltimore and went to Indianapolis is to this day one of the most scandalous stories in sports IMO. Now of course the Ravens have replaced them._


	16. Turning the Tables

_Author's Note: Glad some of y'all liked the Baltimore reference. I'm a former Marylander and still a Ravens fan, figured it would be cool to mention the Colts as one of the things that add authenticity to the historical nature of this story. I felt it would be a very realistic scene to have the Colts playing on TV while Conway Twitty is on the jukebox. Many of my other stories like "24 Season 10: God's Country" and "24 Season Zero" also have Baltimore area references. There are also West Virginia references in many of my stories since that is where I live now and as I mentioned before some aspects of Charming are actually inspired by things in the Charleston, WV area._

CHAPTER 16: TURNING THE TABLES

" _Stop snitchin'" – Baltimore proverb_

ROUTE 26, EAST OF CHARMING

The two other Mayans who were in a Chevy Corvair saw Benito's vehicle speed out of Open Range Steakhouse's parking lot and quickly turned on the ignition to follow, heading three blocks past the garishly lit clump of gas stations and convenience stores next to the on-ramp for the Charming bypass. Due to the loud noise of the vehicles, they didn't notice Wally Glazer's Harley bearing down on them behind, weaving past the moderate traffic that still took the bypass this time of night.

Benito smiled as he looked in the rearview mirror and saw the other vehicle coming. "You see? I told you this little game won't last too long. Maybe if you let us go, they'll kill you quickly. Maybe even allow your pathetic little club to continue running under new leadership, that we approve of, of course. It's about time Charming saw a little more diversity."

JT hoped that Wally Glazer was truly was following just behind them at a distance as had been the plan they agreed upon during their last meeting. They had caught a lucky break that the Mayans weren't on their bikes, but it made sense. A bunch of Mexican bikers showing up on imported motorcycles would be too obvious to the Charming police, even if they didn't have their kuttes on. Besides, JT thought darkly, maybe they needed two vehicles if they had intended to kidnap Thomas and Megan and take them to separate places and make it harder for anyone to chase them down.

JT ignored Benito's taunting. "Take this exit, head east," he told Benito as they passed a highway sign for State Route 26, heading into the open countryside east of Charming. "And speed up."

"You say so, man," Benito said, following the orders he was given. Route 26 was a flat and almost deserted highway, and with the exception of a tractor-trailer whizzing by toward one of Charming's two truck stops, there was not a single other vehicle on the road.

"Faster!" Clay said. By now they were going 85 mph, the dashed yellow lines on the two-lane highway going by in a blur. It would be over 25 miles to the next sizable town. They could hear the Mayans' Chevy straining to keep up. That was a fine model, but it was old and poorly maintained by the Mayans whose specialty was in Japanese and West German imports.

Wally easily sped up as they hit Route 26 and caught up with the Mayans' vehicle. He heard some frantic shouting in Spanish as the Mayans realized he was right behind them. He took out a Smith & Wesson 9mm and fired on the car, hitting both tires. The car spun around and the Mayan in the driver's seat opened up with his pistol. Wally continued shooting, one of the bullets grazing the Mayan driver on the arm causing him to further lose control and another slammed right into the passenger's chest, sending a squirt of blood flying upward.

The Chevy sedan headed off the road into a drainage ditch next to a line of grapefruit trees by a large citrus farm. Up ahead, brake lights appeared as the vehicle commandeered by JT and Piney stopped to turn around. Wally saw some movement from the Mayan in the passenger's seat and shot the man again, finishing him off this time. However, the distraction had given the driver the time he needed to roll out of the vehicle and into the citrus grove. A shock came upon Wally as he went over to the driver's side and saw that it was empty.

He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his back, then throughout his sternum as a force sent him flying face first onto the pavement. He saw the trail of blood smeared on the illuminated ground and knew he had been shot, and that he was hurt bad. Wally saw the Mayan come out from behind a tree like an evil goblin, raising his gun to shoot again. Two separate caliber weapons opened up as both JT and Piney opened up. Despite the darkness, several of their gunshots found their targets, Wally watching as the bullets ripped through the Mayan, sending the biker thug falling onto the pavement as blood sprayed forward. The Mayan's dying eyes met Wally's, but then Wally saw a blinding flash of light, and then total permanent darkness, as the Mayan fired his pistol in one final act of payback.

"Wally!" Piney shouted, coming over with JT.

"Fuck!" JT said, kneeling by their friend's lifeless body. JT shouted in grief and anger as he looked around, seeing that the other Mayan was also dead already. JT went over to his vehicle and grabbed Eduardo, dragging him out of the car and beating him.

"JT! Stop! We need them!" Piney shouted. He then whispered in JT's ear. "We'll kill all of them eventually, but we need these guys right now if we're to get to Frisco. Remember what the ultimate goal is. All this ends once we get our hands on Frisco and put a bullet in his fucking head."

JT was still breathing quickly, his adrenaline rushing from the chase and his anger and grief at what had just happened to Wally.

Piney saw that several lights had come on in the farmhouse in the middle of the citrus groves. "We may be out of Charming but the law's going to be on their way. Maybe they just called in a noise complaint thinking it's a bunch of rednecks doing late night target practice but we need to get these bodies out and get the fuck out of here."

"That car's done in pretty bad, no way it can be driven," JT said.

"At least get the bodies, the less evidence the better, and shoot out the gas tank."

JT did what Piney suggested and within two minutes, they were back on the road, with flashing blue lights very far behind them at the Route 99 bypass interchange as a sheet of flame shot up from the ruptured gas tank, illuminating the farmland like a natural gas well. Now there was the issue of telling the rest of the club the news about Wally.

DOCTOR'S OFFICE ROOFTOP, NEXT DOOR TO OPEN RANGE STEAKHOUSE

"I knew they would take the bait," Frisco said to Oscar as they crouched on the rooftop of a doctor's office along with several other Mayans. "They can't survive on the street the way we can." The gloating in his voice was obvious.

It was the perfect perch, they had decided. Unlike the bank next door, there were no security cameras recording them, and thanks to the windows, the wall was only slightly harder to scale than the border fence they climbed to enter the country. The sound of the large air conditioning unit on the roof covered up their voices as they whispered to each other.

"I respect your decision, Frisco," said Oscar, "But while the Hondurans are expendable, Benito isn't. I'm sorry but it still bothers me."

"They would only take the bait if we had someone as high up as Benito there," Frisco responded, "After everything that has happened between the Sons and us, it will only make sense to send our best. But they won't dare do anything to Benito. Not after what we are about to do."

"Remember also that Benito and Eduardo volunteered themselves for this, _mi primo,_ " Alejandro said to his cousin.

And as the Sons took off with Benito, Frisco and the Mayans he had with him got back in their vehicles, keeping a tail on Thomas and Megan. Frisco double checked the updated map of Charming they had picked up at a highway rest area and circled an intersection several miles from the town center. The location of Thomas's home was already circled along with Teller Automotive Repair. Frisco pointed to an intersection in the leafy residential neighborhood where Thomas lived.

"This is where we will do it. _Comprenden?"_

" _Si, jefe."_

MORADA CREEK AREA, CHARMING

"Well, I'm glad you and Becca cut me off," Thomas said as they drove down the quiet residential streets of Morada Creek, one of Charming's more recently developed areas. He rolled down the window some more to toss out the cigarette he had just finished smoking. Thomas loved the rapport that Megan had with her bartender friend. There was something that was just so casual and carefree about her workplace that he rarely experienced in his outlaw life. Even selling the Wahewa marijuana on the streets, each customer was a potential stick up man ready to pull a gun on him and take his business, and the spectre of the law always felt like it was everywhere.

"You're still absolutely positive you're okay to drive?" asked Megan.

"Yeah, I'm good. Been on my bike with more in my system than that. I swear you're softening me up, girl."

"You know I try my best to save you from yourself," Megan said, smiling, then looked out the back window, slightly annoyed at the lone headlight from the Harley following them at a constant distance. "Does he really need to escort us like that? Like he's the Secret Service or something? Maybe all that only draws more attention from the Mayans."

"Club's orders," Thomas said, "JT's the big boss. What, you don't like the presidential treatment? Plus, you know Otto from the reservation, he grew up with Lenny."

"Yeah, seem him a few times before I moved to Charming. He was never the friendly, chatty type."

"That he's not," Thomas said, "But he pulls his weight. I think about that day at the mall that started all this shit, he took out quite a few Weathermen and Mayans. Each and every one of us was critical that day."

Thomas paused. "Above all, he was loyal. I doubt your friends on the reservation's ever told you this, but he did 4 years in Stockton because he refused to snitch to the Feds about the weed that Raging Bull's allowed to be grown. The DEA was going to use their pull to get the state charges dropped. The DEA agent in charge of that operation was Mark Tasker."

"I'm sorry, _DEA?_ I thought…"

"Yes, he was DEA before he was FBI. That was supposed to have been the case to make his career, make him the head of the Miami division with all the perks, going to the Caribbean on so-called official business."

"Except Otto Moran didn't snitch. Yeah I can see how Tasker would be totally fucking pissed. Having to settle for San Francisco, and not even being able to be _there_ half the time."

"Exactly. He must have pulled some strings through his family to even be able to land that FBI job after how he botched the Otto Moran case. He certainly didn't make any friends on the state level with his style."

"But what still kinda don't make sense to me is, he was so obsessed about stopping weed, and now based on what y'all have told me, he hates the military more than all those stoned hippies throwing shit on the soldiers as they're coming come. So this is really Tasker's personal vendetta against Otto Moran? Now he does seem to hate JT and Piney Winston even more?"

"Knowing that Otto's a member of this club, yeah that's definitely part of it with their history. Otto was the one who got away, who couldn't break. Who rather spend 4 years in the slammer than snitch, because he cared about friendship and loyalty, something those fucking government suits will never understand.

"But above all, Tasker's a thug plain and simple. Not about righteousness, upholding the law, or any of that idealistic bullshit. He's used to being a bully, to having everyone cower before him guilty or not. He's on a power trip, and JT's refusal to bend over and cooperate with his investigation, which his higher ups have a political motive for by the way, and Otto's history explains his obsession about bringing us down."

Megan had just turned her head back forward and pointed to an interesting yard sign when they heard squealing wheels and a loud crashing noise from behind. They both turned their head around and saw Wally's bike flying sideways into a parked car after a large pickup truck had struck it. Thomas immediately drew his weapon but then a large van crashed into his engine block, slamming his vehicle out of the intersection and into a telephone pole, twisting it and causing the lights in the neighborhood to flicker off.

The doors of the van slid open and Alejandro and Oscar opened fire with fully automatic AK-47s along with two other Mayans. Megan screamed at the top of her lungs, clutching her head in her lap as the broken glass of the windshield rained down on her. Thomas snatched his loaded 9mm Ruger pistol from his glove compartment and fired. He saw one of the Mayan prospects go down with a large red mass on his chest but the barrage of gunfire was too furious. However, he was surprised that neither he nor Megan were hit yet.

" _Alto!_ Hold your fire!" Alejandro ordered in Spanish and the guns quickly fell silent. Several more Mayans and Hondurans poured out of the van.

"Come out! We just want to talk! If we wanted you dead we would have killed you already!" Alejandro shouted as one of the other Mayans from an allied charter translated for him. " _Pongan sus mano en el aire!_ Put your hands in the air! Get out of the fucking car!"

"Meg, we need to stay calm and do what they ask!"

She was crying and shivering. "They're going to kill us!"

"They coulda done it already. Just stay calm and let me handle this. I'm the one they want. They don't even know who you are."

She nodded, her teeth clattering in fear.

Thomas raised his hands as Megan did the same. "Okay! We're coming out! _No disparan!_ Don't shoot! We're coming!"

 _"Vamo! Rapido!"_ Alejandro ordered impatiently, waving his AK-47 around in the air. He saw some neighbors looking through a window of a nearby house and fired into the living room. "Get down, motherfuckers, I shoot you! _Chinga tu madre, maricones de mierda!"_

Thomas and Megan got out of the car and slowly stepped forward.

"Keep your hands in the air! Put them on your head and don't move!" shouted Oscar. His violent urges has only been bolstered by his new status as a fully patched Mayan.

Alejandro stepped forward. "Tie them up!"

His henchman followed his orders and tied both of their hands up with thick masking tape. Another vehicle pulled up and Frisco himself got out of the back, also revealing Otto's badly injured body. At least one of his legs and both arms were clearly broken, twisted into abnormal positions and Thomas could hear him crying out in pain.

Frisco had a smug smile on his face as he approached Thomas. "I'm sure you know who I am by now."

Thomas would typically have been cocky even in this situation, but forced that out of himself due to the knowledge that Megan was also being held at gunpoint by these thugs.

"Yes, Frisco."

Frisco kicked Thomas hard in the balls, a blinding pain spreading through him. " _Solo mis amigos me llamen esto._ Only my friends can call me that. To you, I am Francisco Martinez."

Thomas knew it was pointless to ask what Frisco wanted from them. "Fuck you."

"Even now, you speak with such gringo arrogance. You and your club have taken so much from me," Frisco said slowly and with deep conviction. "You will pay for everything."

"Just…just take me!" Thomas said. "She has nothing to do with this and….and Otto needs to go to a hospital."

"You are _all_ part of this, Thomas," Frisco said, using the Spanish version of his name "My brother, now so many of my friends. You will learn to suffer what we have suffered. You will learn what it means to lose those closest to you."

Frisco tightened Thomas's restraints and motioned toward Megan. "Take her!"

"No!" Thomas yelled, "Don't you dare lay a finger on her you son of a bitch!"

"Oh yeah?" Frisco said. He then backhanded her across her face, leaving her lip bloody.

"You fucking coward! I'll fucking kill you I swear to God!"

"You wanted me to take you, Thomas. Now I don't know what you would have us do with you. You know, in our club, my old lady, she is just my bitch. I fuck her whenever my dick feels lonely. And when I want a new bitch, I tell her to go fuck herself! But you! You are serious about this kind of commitment? You _love_ her? That is your weakness. I know it. Now, Thomas, here is what will happen. We are willing to make an exchange."

Frisco looked Thomas closely in the eye. "Now I have someone you want. You will give me someone that _I_ want. I will return your old lady to you when you bring John Teller to me so I can kill him by my own hand. As for your friend here, you can have him back. You will probably find him a mile from here."

Frisco laughed and then grabbed the injured Otto, throwing him onto the blacktop and tying a chain around his legs, his eyes widening in horror. Frisco then climbed into the driver's seat and floored the accelerator. Thomas saw Otto desperately try to escape the chains in a futile manner as his body bounced up and down the pavement as he was dragged along the streets.

"You fucking son of a bitch!" Thomas shouted. He grabbed the 9mm pistol he had dropped onto the pavement and aimed it at the taillights becoming more distant by the second down the street. Thomas fired four shots, one of them shattering the rear glass window of the Mayans' van, but none of them hit the chain they had tied Otto with.

MARTINEZ IMPORTS TRADING COMPANY, OAKLAND

Megan knew she was most likely in Oakland when she heard the foghorns of the tugboats guiding the larger oceangoing vessels into the port. This was confirmed when the doors to the van slid open and the salty smell of the bay hung in the air, mixed with the diesel exhaust from the trucks engaged in the port commerce. Only a little less than an hour from Charming, yet a world apart.

" _Vamos_ , _puta! Ahora!"_ Alejandro barked as Frisco appeared behind her.

Frisco slapped her hard on the face. " _No tenemos toda noche!_ We don't have all night!" Frisco spoke rapidly, the Mayan translator working hard to keep up with him. He then grabbed her and violently yanked her out of the van, her knees painfully scraping against the rough pavement. "It will be less painful if you get up and walk yourself!"

"Okay! Okay!" Megan said, her tears barely dry from crying silently most of the way here as the Mayans and their Honduran stooges heaped crude sexual references on her as a demonstration of their traditional Latin _machismo_.

They took her to a large structure that looked either like a long single-wide trailer or a converted shipping container. She couldn't be sure in the poorly lit environment and in her state of mind. The Mayans threw her inside, where there were two cells. There were still some bloodstains on the wall. It was clear that the cells had only been haphazardly cleaned with a number of maggots still crawling around. Flies also buzzed through the dark, stale air.

"You're lucky you don't have a cellmate," Frisco said with a nasty smirk. "We in fact were holding a man here. Someone whose boss refused to pay protection money to cover his business and the safety of his employees. You better hope for your own sake that your boyfriend can convince the Sons of Anarchy to be more accommodating to our demands. If he loves you enough, he'll make sure that they do. "

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

"So much for keeping a low profile," Unser said as he walked over from his police car, the blue lights still flashing. The entire neighborhood was up by now and observing the scene, several curious residents even walking up to the yellow crime scene tape and asking the Charming PD officers what the heck was going on. Chief Hancock had asked Unser to take charge of the scene, given his relationship with the Sons. The last part was said very sarcastically to be sure as they left the station. It took a lot of urging on Hancock's part for the county sheriff's department to not be involved.

JT, Piney and the rest of the Sons squealed their bikes to a stop by the tape and went right past it. Otto's lifeless, broken body was on a strip of grass separating the street from a sidewalk. A streak of blood ran the entire five blocks he was dragged before the Mayans decided he was definitely dead and shot the chain. The only description of the suspects the neighbors were able to give out was that they were tough looking, heavily tattooed Hispanic males. With illegal alien crime spreading further into the Central Valley every year, that description was no longer very helpful.

"Otto! Fuck!" JT said as he brushed past several forensics investigators. He couldn't believe the club had just lost two of its members within the past hour.

"Excuse me, sir, Mr. Teller, but…" a young female investigator said, smartly trying to not sound too harsh with him.

"Fuck the crime scene. We know what the hell happened. Fucking Mayans got him!" Clay shouted in her face, getting her to back up with a nervous expression on her face.

JT already had a sinking feeling the moment he arrived at the clubhouse with Benito, Eduardo, and their other captives, when Keith McGee told him Unser had called regarding a Mayan attack on club members inside Charming. He thought he had outsmarted Frisco and his goons. However there was a part of him that had still held on to hope. Otto was a tough guy, who had survived a life on the streets, even four years in prison. Maybe he had been able to fight off the Mayan attackers.

His hopes were immediately dashed as he came upon the scene, with a highly distraught Thomas already there as well. Thomas was shaking in both rage and desperation at what he had just witnessed and experienced himself. At one point, very early on in this war, he had thought about finding a way to make amends with the Mayans over the unintended encounter than resulted in Juan Martinez's death. But now all JT felt was a pure, almost feral rage. Frisco's brother was burning in hell, and he was glad, JT thought. It was the Mayans who had asked for it when they allied himself with the Weathermen who murdered Otis Cross and over a dozen other soldiers and civilians in that cowardly bomb attack.

Now it was blood for blood, and the Mayans would pay even more dearly.

"Tell me what happened, Thomas." JT said. "Talk to me, man. What do you remember?" He tried his best to comfort Thomas and share in his grief, but he needed to get to the bottom of things.

"Me and Megan were just in the car and all of a sudden they rammed us, a total ambush," Thomas told JT. "They took her."

"What?" Piney asked in surprise. He had thought maybe she had gone back to the apartment she rented a few miles from here.

"Frisco kidnapped Megan, JT. He said he's willing to trade her for you."

"That's not going to happen," Clay immediately said.

Thomas gave him a sudden almost hostile look.

"What, you think we're just going to surrender our leader to those fucking animals so they can butcher him?" Clay said incredulously.

"Of course not." He looked at JT. Thomas just hoped that JT didn't sense any wavering in his loyalty.

"We're not going to let anything happen to her," JT said.

"We still have a window of opportunity to figure things out," said Piney. "We can't give up just yet. We need to believe that our brotherhood is stronger than this."

"Did Frisco give you a timetable on when this alleged trade's supposed to happen?" JT asked Thomas.

Thomas shook his head. "No, but he says he now knows about our clubhouse and everything, possibly from torturing the guys at Casa Grande. He said he'll call with instructions and to always answer the phone at Teller Automotive, especially after hours."

"Okay," JT said nodding, "It's time we all went home, got some rest and recoup. I want Keith and Clay at the clubhouse, rotating security duties. We're going to hold chapel tomorrow morning at 11, make preparation to lay Otto and Wally to rest, and come up with a plan to deal with this, because if they're going to murder our brothers and take an old lady, we're going to be the ones to end this.

JT turned to Thomas. "I need you to trust me on this brother. Can you do that?"

Thomas did not answer him and just stared blankly ahead.

"Look at me, Thomas. Will you trust me?" JT asked.

"Yeah," Thomas replied, but the conviction in his voice wasn't there.

 _Author's Note: Again the circumstances of these First 9 members' death are fictionalized by myself though there may be some contradicting info on the SOA wikia site. I use that site as a guide, not as canon._


	17. The Prisoners

_Author's Note: In the subsequent scenes, Frisco is supposed to have his translator there when talking with the English-speaking characters even if its not mentioned. Going to be a very suspenseful ride till the end!  
_

CHAPTER 17: THE PRISONERS

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR

JT led the way through the well-maintained repair shot to the clubhouse part of the building, taking his seat at the head of the table. A grim mood hung like a dark cloud over the meeting as the brothers greeted one another. The tension seemed even higher than when they had first met and planned the revenge attack on the Weather Underground.

Piney embraced Thomas as they both arrived. "I'm so sorry man. We're gonna make this right."

Thomas nodded, but there was still doubt in his voice and on his face. He looked over to Clay, Lenny, and Keith but they tried their best to be expressionless. This time, nobody knew where everyone else stood on things. Not after two of their own violently killed less than 24 hours before and the girlfriend of another Son kidnapped.

JT desperately wanted an ice cold Budweiser, or better yet a strong shot of Jack and Coke, but he knew he needed to be as clear minded as possible. The truth was he didn't get much sleep the night much. For the first time since the club was founded, he himself had doubts that he tried his best to hide. A good military leader was open and realistic about the risks, but not all of these guys came from a military background, and some of those who did didn't have combat experience.

He and Piney at the very least were most focused on friendship and loyalty. Thomas and Lenny had wanted revenge over Otis Cross's death too, but they may be more into preserving their own survival and the profits from their illegal enterprises. Clay probably stood in between, while Keith McGee was a mystery, a criminal who seemed to answer to himself above all.

JT was most leery of the Northern Irish exile. The IRA as a terrorist organization was bad enough but Keith wasn't even a member of that. He was a freelance arms dealer who allied himself with them because it was where the money was. After all, the British Army personnel stationed in Belfast had no need for black market Soviet weapons. Keith claimed he was above the fighting, but rather than working for peace, he made a fortunate off of the conflict. Yes, Keith did help the Sons against the Weathermen, but during his time in Northern Ireland, he also helped the USSR broker arms to the IRA in an attempt to destabilize the West.

SONS OF ANACRHY CLUBHOUSE/MARTINEZ IMPORTS TRADING COMPANY

The conversation came to an abrupt halt as the rotary phone rang in the middle of the table. JT snatched it out of the receiver after the second ring.

"Teller Automotive Repair, this is John, can I help you?" he answered in his usual business voice though he knew the caller wasn't going to be inquiring about getting a timing belt replaced.

"Ah John, I'm glad you at least obeyed the first of instructions," Frisco said. "I understand your garage is technically closed at this hour. So we finally speak, one on one, John Teller. The man who murdered my brother, who gave the orders that killed so many members of my club."

"Fuck you, wetback!" Lenny shouted into the phone. "We're gonna make you pay for Wally and…."

JT held his hand up for him to be quiet and to allow him to remain in charge of the conversation for now.

"Mr. Martinez," JT said as diplomatically as possible, "I believe this situation has escalated well out of control. Our club never intended to attack you…"

"But you _did_ attack us!" Frisco interrupted angrily.

"Please let me finish," JT said, "Our beef was against the Weathermen and the Weathermen alone. Our sources told us the Weathermen were going to be at the mall and that they had a tendency to arrive early. That had never been the case for your group."

Frisco did remember that he and Juan had together decided to scout the area before the Weathermen meet at the mall parking garage that day since the deal involved an unusually large amount of weapons, drugs, and cash. But he was now blinded by his rage. Somebody had to pay for Juan's death, and the Sons were the most guilty party. He refused to place any blame on himself.

JT continued, "I believe that this has gone on long enough, Before we go any further, we need to know that Megan's still alive."

"She is, for now," Frisco replied.

"I'm sorry if your word doesn't suffice for us," Thomas said.

"Ah, Thomas, so nice to talk to you again. Maybe _her_ words will suffice."

Frisco went over to Megan and yanked violently at her hair, then punched her in the mouth, knocking out two of her front teeth. She yelped in pain.

"Please stop!" she wailed. "Thomas, JT, please just give them what they want!" Her voice was definitely scratchier than usual.

"I'm going to blow your fucking brains out, you goddamn beaner!" Thomas screamed. "Meg….we're here for you. We're gonna get you out of there."

Frisco let out a laugh filled with vindictiveness and satisfaction. "I'm sorry if she's losing her voice, but she did scream all night. My _hombres_ and I had a lot of fun with her last night. She has probably never fucked a Mexican before in her life, and now she has seven, eight? I was the one who broke her in, _si_?"

"I swear, Frisco, you…" Clay shouted into the phone. He knew how that nickname was supposed to be off-limits to anyone not in the Mayans' circle, but he couldn't control himself. He just hoped that the Mayan leader wouldn't take any more of his anger out on Megan.

"Maybe he's bluffing," Piney said, urging everyone to remain calm, even though he knew that Frisco's claims were most likely true.

"JT, they need to pay for this, they must!" Thomas said in a loud whisper. He felt himself being driven insane at the thought of one Mayan gangster after another forcing themselves on his girlfriend.

"Like I said, Mr. Martinez, this has gone on way too long. Neither of us wanted to go to war with one another. To be honest with you I don't even intend to keep this club longer than was necessary to protect ourselves and our town. I would like to propose a truce. You give us back Megan, we give you back Benito, Eduardo, and your two little punks from MH-11."

"Am I hearing this right, _pendejo_? You still think you're dictating terms to us?"

 _"Si,"_ JT said with hardening expression on his face.

"I told you it would come to this," Clay said darkly. "So we do what we discussed?"

JT nodded and held the phone up in the air as JT grabbed one of the Hondurans and dragged him to the table. "Benito, tell him what's happening!"

Benito did as he was told. JT hoped Benito realized that Frisco never asked for proof he was still alive the way JT had asked about Megan.

"Get on your fucking knees!" Clay barked to the Honduran. They heard Frisco screaming something in Spanish on the phone but ignored it.

Clay then turned to Benito as he took out his handgun and walked toward the Honduran. "This is also your fault, for not answering our questions about where to find Frisco. One way or another, we're going to end this."

"Please tell him everything!" the Honduran shouted to Benito.

"I'm sorry _, vato,"_ Benito said to his comrade.

This drove the Honduran into pure panic mode as he pleaded with Clay and the other Sons gathered around the table. " _Por favor, gringo, no!"_

Clay made sure there was a round in his chamber, then shot the Honduran at point blank range, sending blood, brain matter and skull fragments all over the floor.

"Benito, tell him what happened!" Clay shouted. "Then I want you and your boys to clean up this mess. I expect it to be as spotless as when this place was first built!"

Benito tried his best to maintain his composure. The culture of the streets demanded this. However, JT had to admit he took some satisfaction in seeing Benito and Eduardo's lips quiver slightly as the Sons stood over them.

"What the fuck is happening over there?" Frisco demanded over the phone. "Benito? Eduardo? You there? Speak to me!"

"They just shot Jaime in the head!"

"Ah so that was Jaime? I heard him begging like a coward," Frisco remarked as he looked around his own table. "We're probably better without him anyway." Frisco truly didn't miss Jaime at all given his cowardice, pathetically begging the gringos not to kill him. Frisco made a mental note that MH-11 was truly not reliable anymore and that once this Sons business was settled they may want to start working with the Salvadorans instead.

Yet he was still outraged, by the Sons' blatant disregard at his power even after he had kidnapped Megan and murdered two of their own. Or perhaps they're also driven by revenge now and that was payback.

"That was a mistake, John," Frisco said. "This conversation is over for now. I will call you again in three days. Hopefully between now and then, you'll be convinced to be more cooperative with us."

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION

It took about a half hour for Benito, Eduardo, and the surviving Honduran gangster to clean up what was left of their friend's brains from the floor and load the body into the back of a Chevy pickup truck, covered up with a tarp. JT thought about burying the body on one of the Sons' properties but decided it was too risky with neighbors and cops, and besides, before she was captured Megan did mention that Special Agent Tasker was still digging around town.

Yes, he had also mentioned the reservation, but there was still an additional layer of protection there, so they decided to hide the body there and take the Mayan prisoners up there too. JT led his men and the prisoners into Chief Raging Bull's custom-built home, which was paid for mostly by his marijuana growing profits instead of from federal subsidies. It wasn't an extravagant, gaudy mansion like those owned by many crime bosses, but it definitely belonged more in a suburban cul-de-sac than an Indian reservation.

They went to the minibar in the basement, where several of the Sons took seats on the couches while JT, Piney and Clay removed the blindfolds off their captives and made them sit at the barstools. Keith McGee immediately opened the fridge looking for some Irish whiskey after a taxing few days but had to settle for some Kentucky Gentleman. Even in Belfast they could get some Woodford Reserve, he thought to himself as he offered Thomas a shot.

"Just drink it, mate," Keith said, "Nothing we can do about Megan this very instant, might as well calm ourselves down."

Thomas first went over and socked Eduardo in the stomach. "You're going to talk, you fucking understand me, wetback? I know you understand what I'm saying. This don't need no translation." He kneed Eduardo in the groin, the Mayan yelping in pain but afraid to show too much fear as his senior biker Benito was next to him and because he also needed to maintain the respect from the Honduran underling.

JT tapped him on the shoulder. "That's enough for now, let me talk to them." He made sure not to speak too loudly as he knew Benito could speak English. He turned to Benito. "We need you and your men to calm down and to answer the questions we have for you."

Clay opened up the fridge again and took out a Corona, spinning it on the bar top. He then took out one of the freshly cut limes in a container. The Wahewa definitely knew how to party. Clay took a sip himself from a Budweiser.

"I see our tribal friends drink the same stuff you do."

Benito and Eduardo ignored him.

"C'mon, drink it!"

" _Pendejo estupido._ You rednecks have got to be kidding me. You think you know everything about us? Mexicans never even put lime in our Coronas. That's one of those stupid things Americans invented."

Clay went over to him, pulling out his Ruger 9mm pistol from his holster. "Does this look like fucking Mexico to you, wetback? Now put that fucking lime in the bottle and drink it!"

 _"Chinga tu madre,"_ Benito cursed but he pushed the signature lime through the neck of the bottle.

JT smiled at the scene. Right now it wasn't only about acting intimidating to for this interrogation session. It was rage at what the Mayans had done, and a determination to both get Megan back and put an end to this matter once and for all. He wasn't just angry, he was tired. As soon as this could be resolved, maybe it was time for the Sons to disband and make another attempt at regular civilian life despite the hostility they faced from some segments of society given their veteran status and/or their criminal backgrounds. How to convince the club was a future challenge.

"Benito Chavarria, Secretary of the infamous Mayans MC. I do know more about you and your club than you expect. Now that we've established who's in charge here, let's get to our questions. Kinda like court which I'm sure all of you are experienced with. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. _Comprendes, amigo?"_

"Frisco will come for us! Don't tell them any shit!" Eduardo shouted to Benito in Spanish.

"Don't worry, Eduardo. These _hueyputas_ won't get a thing out of me," Benito said defiantly.

JT took several steps forward.

"Benito, I know you have the answers I need because you're a senior member of the club. We may try with these other guys as well though one of your buddies has already lived out his usefulness. We need to know where they're holding Megan, and where we can get a hold of Frisco."

"Suck my dick, bitch," Benito spat. He dispensed with any of the Spanish profanity, as it was clear to Eduardo and the Honduran he was resisting this interrogation with _machismo_.

"I don't like making deals, but these guys don't even understand what we're saying. You tell me what I need to know and you'll be free. We'll take care of Frisco." In all honesty, he wasn't sure if the other Mayans truly didn't speak English or if it was just an act.

JT was only slightly troubled by how he was going to interrogate these Mayans after what the commies had done in Vietnam. But it was different, he reminded himself. Their cause was just. He grabbed Benito and dragged him into the bathroom, wrapping a large bath towel around his head and face, then shoved him into the shower, turning on the scalding hot water.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Benito screamed, his arms thrashing around as Piney and Clay held him down and the hot water covered the towel.

"Keep it running!" JT said to Piney, "He's not gonna drown. Just going to feel like he is."

They kept the water running for about thirty more seconds and hurled Benito back again the wall so hard that several of the tiles broke. JT and Clay dragged Benito back out into the main part of the basement and tore off the towel, Benito coughing up water for several long moments, panting hard and hitting his hand on the floor.

"It's only going to get worse unless you cooperate, Benito," JT said, then began shouting. "Look at me! Nobody is coming for you! Nobody knows you're here!"

Next it was Thomas that came forward, dealing Benito a brutal beating, but the Mayan gangster took it in stride, grunting in pain but remaining silent.

"It's like the fucking Russians trained them on resisting interrogations," Clay said.

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR - THE NEXT MORNING

"Hey!" Otto Moran shouted, reaching for his gun as an old Ford sedan with two Mexican men inside picked up speed after slowing down. The Mexican in the passenger's seat threw a tied up plastic bag out of the window when they were right outside Teller Automotive Repair. He was the one assigned to stand guard just off the premises in case the Mayans came with an army of gangsters. The Mayans at least knew the location of their clubhouse by now, which made the security situation more precarious than ever.

"Jesus Christ!" Otto said as he picked up the bag and took a peak inside, running breathlessly into the garage. Since it was business hours, the gate was open and several customers were there, staring at him as he rushed into the building.

"Oh my God, JT!" he said, interrupting JT as he was explaining a brake pad replacement to a young woman. "I need you ASAP, upstairs!"

JT brought Thomas and Clay with him as they entered the clubhouse, where Otto was waiting with the plastic bag on the table.

"I….I can't believe it, man. Dammit!"

Thomas stepped forward into the room, opened the bag, and began to scream.


	18. Amigos in High Places

CROW'S NEST CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 18: AMIGOS IN HIGH PLACES

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR

Thomas threw up right on the garage floor as JT's eyes stared at the ghoulish contents of the plastic shopping bag. Two bloodied human ears were in the bag, both with Megan's signature earrings still attached to them, along with a note sloppily written in broken English telling the Sons to call a certain phone number and to reconsider their decision before making the call, and that Megan's hands or feet would be delivered to Charming next.

Thomas removed his pistol from his belt holster and pointed it at the Mayan prisoners, his finger on the trigger, but JT grabbed his hand and two bullets discharged into the ceiling instead.

"We still need the bargaining chips!"

"We need to fucking find them today!" Thomas screamed, "Oh God!"

JT sighed and pushed the Honduran prisoner forward, nodding to Thomas, who punched him in the stomach and pulled him toward the bathroom, also ordering Benito to go serve as a translator.

"The time Megan has, is the time y'all have," Thomas shouted at them as they entered the bathroom. "If we don't find her on time, your Mayan _amigos_ will never find you!"

Clay spoke up. "But if they're going to threaten to send us Megan's hands and feet, maybe we need to beat them to it." He grabbed a shotgun from the rack in the basement and fired it at Eduardo, severing his right arm below the elbow.

"Ahhhhhhh! _Hijos de putas! Pedazso de mierdas!"_ screamed Eduardo.

"You want me to translate for them, I will," Benito said, "But I promise none of us will talk. Whatever you do to us, the penalty for betraying our brothers is worse. Francisco has made that very clear." He turned to the Honduran. " _Cierto?_ Correct? _"_

 _"Si,_ Benito!" The MH-11 gangster was already embarrassed by his fellow crew member's cowardice, begging for his life before JT shot him in the head.

"We'll see about that," Thomas said as he forced the Honduran into the bathroom. "Where the fuck are they holding my girl?"

 _"Chingate guey!_ "

Benito laughed. "He says to go fuck yourself!"

"I won't ask you again! WHERE are they holding Megan? I know you know the answer!"

"And you know you will never get it from me," the Honduran taunted Thomas. He then proceeded to spit in his face, which obviously needed no translation.

"And even if he does break," Benito said, "I won't tell you." He then broke out laughing.

"In that case, it won't be America on the other side of the water. It's hell," Thomas said. He grabbed the Honduran's neck and forced his head into the toilet, the Honduran's hand clutching the toilet bowl for over a minute as he struggled to overpower Thomas, but Clay also went and held him down. After what seemed like forever, the tapping stopped and Thomas yanked the Honduran's head back, the man's drowned body falling onto the tiled bathroom floor, his face already pale.

Thomas then kicked his body to the other side of the bathroom. JT stood there but did nothing. Thomas hadn't even truly come to grips with what had happened, as he stared blankly at the plastic bag and its contents. JT knew it was different than how his brothers-in-arms were tortured to death in the war. She was an innocent, defenseless girl kidnapped from the middle of a residential neighborhood in Charming because of her association with a club member. She wasn't even a member of the club herself. Even if she survived, she would be horribly disfigured for the rest of her life. Suddenly his mind raced. How could he even face her after what the Mayans had done? Could he even bear to look at her already disfigured body? In addition to the ghastly sight, it would be a constant reminder that he and the club had failed here, and it had happened because he wore the patch. The only thing he could do now was pray they got her back before anything else happened.

FBI FIELD OFFICE, DOWNTOWN SAN FRANCISCO

Mark Tasker had actually truly missed his office at the federal building in downtown San Francisco, especially compared to being out in the "boondocks" of the Central Valley, but he hardly missed his boss, Special Agent in Charge Nathan Jarrett. With all of his family connections in multiple federal agencies, Tasker felt he should be the one sitting behind Jarrett's desk in his corner office.

"Thank you, sir, for taking the time to see me," Tasker said with a fake but polite respectfulness. He certainly knew how to play the game and could be slickly humble when the situation called for it, though he was more in his element chewing out a bartender for allegedly watering down his cocktails.

"Mark, when you convinced me to go against Bureau protocol and provide access to our tracking technology to your so-called sources in Charming, it was with the understanding that results would come quickly. I don't see anything in your most recent reports to suggest that's the case, or will become the case anytime soon."

"Yes, sir, we've had some drawbacks. As we all know from the news, the situation in Charming has…."

"Which you should have handled by now!" Jarrett said in a frustrated tone. "I get a call from Washington every other day wondering what the hell's going on out there! Do you realize that the homicide rate in San Joaquin County this year has been on par with New York? Yes, even with all the madness in Harlem, I'd rather be walking down the street there than the area you're responsible for."

"With respect, sir," Tasker said, "The real correlation between the increase in violence is with the formation of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club. Charming PD and others in town refuse to cooperate with us in our investigation which is why…"

"And your investigation in Concord?"

"The Sons have covered their tracks well. We've reviewed hours of footage from multiple security cameras from the food court, the department stores and half the truck stops, rest areas, and gas stations between here and Charming. They know all about surveillance, I believe some of them may have been involved in recon operations in the military. We _must_ apply more pressure on the local police in Charming, remind them that their duty is to uphold the law."

"So everyone's to blame except yourself, right?" Jarrett responded rhetorically. "If you had focused more resources on investigating the Lodi bombing, maybe John Teller wouldn't have felt compelled to organize the club and go after the Weathermen himself, and then we wouldn't be in the situation we're in right now. You….you did what you felt was politically expedient, not what was right."

"I don't believe there's any way we could have foreseen these actions. These soldiers are crazy! This war is crazy. They come back on fucked up in the head Lord knows what…"

"All I want to know is, how are we going to settle these problems in the Central Valley? I don't want have to go to Washington at the end of the year and explain to the director why the stats in these little towns is worse than Harlem! And now you're reaching out to the Sons' enemies?"

"It's going to go one of two ways. We go after the Sons the old way we're hitting a brick wall. The people I've talking to are able to challenge the club in a way that my badge doesn't allow me to. Is it going to get bloody for a while? Perhaps, but once we weather the storm, Charming's going to go back to being Mayberry, and everyone goes home happy. The alternative is for the violence to continue with no end in sight till we're comparing San Joaquin with Saigon rather than Harlem."

"Whatever happens, it's on you, Tasker. I don't even want to know what the hell you've got up your sleeve." Tasker did his delight that his superior made basically compromised his principles and gave him a green light to continue the activities had had already begun. He masked this with some of that confident arrogance. Amazing how the dynamics of this meeting had changed.

"Yes, it's on me, win or lose."

GOLDEN GATE PARK, SAN FRANCISCO

After leaving his office, Tasker drove his government-provided Mercedes 200 D sedan west to Golden Gate Park, where two men were waiting for him in a gazebo next to a fishing pond and flower garden. This was the perfect place for a meet. A busy establishment meant too many witnesses and possible security cameras, while a completely desolate area would allow the men he was meeting to conduct an ambush if that had been on their minds.

Both men were dressed like they could be longshoremen on their day off, but they were usually seen in Mayan kuttes.

 _"Buenas tardes,"_ Frisco said as his translator from Texas repeated his words in English. "I hope the people in your office haven't given you too much trouble."

"Well they obviously don't like the fact that I'm not going to tell them who you are, beyond the fact you're from Oakland. But I got the approval to do whatever's necessary to bring the violence to an end."

Frisco nodded. "Yes, the violence will end when we destroy the Sons and establish ourselves in Charming, taking over their businesses."

"You really think the Indians are going to deal with you after what you're doing to that young woman from their tribe?"

"They will have no choice. There is something you Americans don't understand about how we do things, Mark. The game we play has no rules. We take what we want. We have sacrificed too much blood to not take what they have, in addition to the satisfaction and peace that revenge will provide us. Unfortunately the Sons haven't been very cooperative, and they've already killed one of our men, but that's to be expected."

Tasker almost asked these Mayans just how badly had hurt Megan already, but figured the more deniability he had for himself, the better. He wasn't expecting things to go south with his higher ups, but if it did and he had some kind of administrative hearing or even prosecution, he would blame the Mayans for purposely misleading him about their intentions.

"What about the technology I provided you? Has it been put to good use?"

"Yes, my men have been tracing Benito using the tracker that you gave us, and that's the main reason why we need to meet. We've located them in the Wahewa Indian Reservation. We're not very familiar with that tribe."

"Motherfucker!" Tasker cursed. The Wahewa reservation would be the bane of his existence, it appeared.

"But you're a federal agent. You can go into the reservation and crash their powwow whether the fucking Indians allow you or not! I need to know what's going on in there, or I need you to use your connections in the government to force them to stop giving sanctuary to my brother's murderers!"

"First of all let me make myself clear, _hombre_. You don't _need_ me to do anything." In fact, Tasker had no love for the Mayans and wasn't even being paid by them. This was all a calculation and part of his drive to destroy the Sons. If the Mayans took care of the Sons, he could claim credit for putting an end to the biker gang violence in Charming as well as find a way to officially end his investigation into the Lodi bombing without just having it sputter out. Perhaps he could frame some of the Sons for an inside job, claiming it was done to convince JT to create the club so that it can be used for their criminal enterprises. All this would do wonders for Tasker's career. And when the time came, he would turn on the Mayans too. Hopefully that would be enough to get his transfer to the vaunted Miami office approved.

"If I apply pressure on the Wahewa, it's because _I_ want to. As for the device, my superiors aren't happy with what I'm doing, and we need results before they look into this further. I'm going to push harder on the Indians with the legal angle. It was a stupid move on your part to kidnap a member of their tribe."

"Megan and Thomas were the only ones we could get to. JT and Piney don't even have old ladies as far as we know," Frisco said in his own defense. "That was the best way we can get leverage against the club."

"Well I'll do what I can on my end but if they don't fold, you'll have no choice but to go after them in the reservation, which will bring more federal attention."

"Hopefully you'll be able to flush them out instead."

WAHEWA INDIAN RESERVATION

Chief Raging Bull was over twenty minutes late to his meeting with JT and Piney at his office in the tribal council building, and he didn't look too happy. Megan's kidnapping had hit the tribe hard, and he had just had a terribly unpleasant meeting with Special Agent Tasker at the reservation gates. Him and the tribal police had vehemently refused Tasker permission to enter the reservation, and it was within their every right to do so. Only the Bureau of Indian Affairs personnel could legally enter Indian Country without a warrant if the tribe didn't want to grant permission.

"What's going on?" Piney asked.

"I've consulted with the council, and they've voted to stop providing sanctuary to your club," Raging Bull said.

"But we've done business for years. We're friends and associates of your people," JT interjected. He had to admit that once again, the criminal enterprises some of his members engaged in might come in useful.

"That's true but this is about self preservation. Agent Tasker came back again today. He reminded us of the power he has to make sure the government never approves a gaming license even if tribal casinos are legalized."

"They don't have the grounds to do that. I know some lawyers in town that will fight them, we'll even pay your attorney fees but we need your protection at this time, at least for another few days."

Raging Bull shook his head. "Unfortunately the council has overruled me on this and I've made my case as forcefully as possible. Unlike the historical Wahewa chiefs, I no longer have absolute power over my people. And yes, Tasker may have the power. He's going to go into our hearing, talk about our tied to organized crime - yes that is what the marijuana production is in their eyes - compare us to Bugsy Siegel and remind the regulators how many years it took to get the mob out of Las Vegas."

"Megan is a member of your tribe. Doesn't the council understand that we're..."

"In fact many of the council members no longer consider her one of us given her decision not only to move off the reservation when she could have commuted to Charming from here, but because of her choice to be with a white man. While we both know otherwise, they feel she has turned her back on our people and isn't worth losing our potential gambling revenues and the marijuana production over."

"How much time do we have?" JT asked.

"Your club has 12 hours to leave the reservation, and our tribal police will no longer be allowed to assist you like with the protection they've given you so far. The council's decision is final."

MARTINEZ IMPORTS TRADING COMPANY

Frisco left the van and walked the short distance down the grungy docks of Oakland back into the converted shipping container which was positioned in such a way that it was hidden from view from both the water and the closest street. Megan was in such pain and terror that anything, even being violated the way the Mayans had done to her during her first night in captivity, would be better than what was coming. Yet Frisco wasn't here to rape her again, and she knew that. He was here to do worse. Despite her exterior ear having been removed and the gauze tied roughly around them, she could hear the Mayans' taunts.

"Let me tell you a surprise, _puta,"_ Frisco said as Alejandro and Oscar entered laughing. "You see, all this was just a game. I have a tracking device, the kind that comes from…no, _puta_ it IS an FBI tracking device. I know exactly where the Sons are hiding our people." He made a point to glance at her severed ears. "This is just a game, to see how much Thomas loves you."

"Please….he's….just kill me please…." She said weakly.

"It won't be that easy," Frisco said. "But then again it's not up to us! The Sons, especially John Teller, would rather choose to be cowards and save themselves. Instead of surrendering himself to you, Teller instead killed two of my men, and he shot off the arm of another. He thinks that will push us to back off?"

Frisco barked some orders in Spanish to his men, and Alejandro and Oscar went forward and held Megan's hands down on a table. "We will let our Honduran friends join in the fun this time, so the Sons can answer to them too."

A heavily tattooed MH-11 gang member came into the room with a handsaw.

"Please!" Megan looked at the translator. "Tell him I know Thomas is doing everything he can! JT is the President but…"

The Honduran slapped her in the face, and the translator didn't even bother to translate this time.

"Please! Tell him to stop!" Megan begged. While she didn't understand their language, she could tell from their tone of voices and the violent, merciless look in their eyes that what was coming next was unimaginable.

"Both hands?" the Honduran asked Frisco.

 _"Si, mojados,"_ replied Frisco. "And gag her. Yes, nobody's going to hear her scream from the other docks, but it will be for our own ear protection."

SOA CLUBHOUSE, TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR

"Why the hell's he here? We didn't order anything," Clay said as he looked outside the window from the Teller Automotive office and saw a truck from a courier service pull into the yard.

"It's Wednesday. Shit," JT said in a guarded tone. He suddenly remembered this was the day that Frisco was supposed to contact them again, and sending another physical message was in line with the Mayan style.

"Can I help you?" JT asked, walking over as the driver got out of the vehicle.

"Yes, sir, are you, um, Mr. Teller?"

JT nodded.

"We got a package for you and Mr. Thomas Whitney. From a Francisco Martinez in Oakland. Specified next-day delivery."

JT quickly signed for it and brought it back into the clubhouse. He didn't wait a second before cutting open the packing tape with his pocketknife and opening it up. He slammed his fists on the table, shaking his head in disgust. Inside the box was Megan's severed hands, with a note that read, "She is still alive. A lot more fun that way. Look forward to speaking with you."

MAYANS OAKLAND CLUBHOUSE

"We can make the call now. _Listo?"_ Oscar said, handing Frisco the rotary phone. Despite the loud mariachi music blaring in the cantina below, it was silent in the clubhouse, adding to what they considered the gravity of the moment. Whatever doubts their allied charters had expressed was now gone from their minds. Under Frisco's leadership, they had fought the Sons of Anarchy to a standstill. Frisco's plan of using Benito as a decoy and kidnapping Megan was paying off, and John Teller would cave in sooner or later. Being triumphant against a group of former US Army soldiers would elevate their prestige among the other Mayan charters as well as the rest of Oakland's organized crime groups.

Frisco dialed the number and JT answered on the second ring.

"I hope you now know that we mean business," Frisco said, "Especially if the message was delivered to Charming on time."

"You have our attention, Francisco," JT said from the SOA clubhouse, squeezing the phone so hard the palm of his hand was getting numb. "But I hope I have yours too. Hopefully my package also arrived in O-town on time. Your man Eduardo might need a leg up from now on, but at least he's alive."

"I think it's best that we no waste one another's time with bullshit," Frisco said. "I have one simple question for you. Are you willing to make the trade or not?" There was just a slight pause in JT's response, so Frisco continued. "Well I hope Thomas still cares about Megan right? She may be damaged goods, but isn't she still worth something in that sweet little heart of his? Or perhaps we can depreciate her some more, like when a bike loses its tires?"

"We'll make the exchange, Francisco!"

"So you will surrender yourself _and_ release all of our men that you have captured, with the understanding that we will do to you far worse than what we've done to Megan."

"Yes I told you we'll make the trade!"

"And I also demand that you disband your club, and that all of your possessions, including everything in your bank accounts, all of your marijuana dealings in the Central Valley, all the cash in your clubhouse, all of it comes to us. Is that also clear."

"You had not mentioned this before, but yes, Francisco. We agree to your terms. Now tell me where and when this exchange is going to take place."

"Our terms, our turf. It will happen on Pier 3 here at the Oakland marine terminal. You will come alone. If I see anyone else from your club, any _policia_ like Wayne Unser whom we know works for you, any of your friends come, this deal is off."

"I believe Thomas has the right to come for his own old lady, and to correctly identify Megan. And I need at least one other man with me to guarantee you'll keep your end of the bargain, that you won't take me out with a sharpshooter the moment I step onto that pier. I'm sure you've been in your kind of business long enough to understand the importance of an insurance policy."

Frisco looked at some of his men with a knowing expression. "I will allow that much. Just remember, you are outnumbered, and on our turf. Nobody will call the police for you, and even if they do, Oakland PD knows never to enter our barrios."

"Yes, I understand."

"4 PM this afternoon at the port, and have all of my men with you."

Frisco disconnected the call and his translator confirmed the arrangements.

MARTINEZ IMPORTS TRADING COMPANY

" _Hueyputa mentiroso._ Fucking liar," Alejandro said from his seat in front of a bulky computer set amid boxes of imported tropical fruits, their front business. It had taken Tasker all afternoon to get the Mayans acquainted with this new technology.

"So JT is not on his way here with our prisoners? I didn't think he would be," Frisco said.

Alejandro shook his head and pointed to the computer screen, which displayed a pixilated map of the Bay Area spreading eastward into Charming. "Maybe JT _is_ on his way here, but Benito is being moved to a campground in a piece of forest northeast of Charming in Morada Hills State Park." Benito had volunteered to wear the tracking device in case he was taken by the Sons, which obviously turned out to be prudent from the Mayans' point of view.

"Looks like our gringo friend in the FBI actually came through, but the Indians still think they can outsmart us with these games."

He called out to one of the Mayan prospects. "Diego, come here, _vamos."_

" _Si, patron."_

He handed Diego a knife and pointed at Megan. "You asked for a chance to prove yourself worthy of the patch." In fact Frisco didn't feel Diego, a cocky street thug, was truly worthy, but with his club's ranks thinned so much from their war with the Sons of Anarchy, he had to reward the loyalty and ambition that the remaining prospects had demonstrated.

Diego took the knife and nodded. "We would have done this regardless? Even if the Sons had truly been honest with us?"

"I think you already know the answer to that," Frisco replied.

 _Author's Note: Sorry if this chapter was also more filler but it's a build up to the final stretch of the story. Hope y'all have a Merry Christmas!_


	19. The Triple Cross

CHAPTER 19: THE TRIPLE CROSS

SEPTEMBER 15, 1970

SOA CLUBHOUSE

JT knew it was best to not let his frustration and uncertainty show, but at least this was his club, not his military unit. They were his brothers, and they were supposed to be completely transparent amongst themselves. JT found it hard to look Thomas in the eye. He felt he had failed him and Megan, and that their miscalculations had already cost them more than any of them could bear.

"Wayne," JT said to Unser, who had a special invitation to this club meeting, which in itself had to go through a unanimous vote. "Anything?"

"I'm fairly familiar with Oakland, but the Mayans rule the streets in most of the city and have the support of much of the criminal element, even if its grudging support. You been able to acquire their clubhouse location?"

JT shook his head. "Unfortunately not, Wayne. We tried very hard to obtain this information from our captives so we could pinpoint Frisco's location and launch a surprise attack. God knows we tried. We don't even know if they have a single clubhouse."

"The only location we can name is the Martinez Imports Trading Company at the marine terminal. It has a legitimate import-export license but Oakland PD believes it's a front for weapons and drug smuggling."

"Makes sense," Keith McGee spoke up, "Its believed they're smuggling illegal arms from the Communist Bloc into the country via the IRA which receives support from Moscow. At least two ships a month arrive from Belfast. Most of these arms, of course, were destined for the Weather Underground."

Unser continued, "The exchange spot Frisco mentioned is only a block from that property. That part of the Oakland Marine Terminal is next to some of the city's most dangerous neighborhoods. If you're going to go in with 3 men, it's suicide. And they're only letting you go that close to their gang property because they're sure none of you will make it out of there alive."

"We beat the odds when we got out of Da Nang, we can beat them again," Clay said.

"We don't have a choice right now."

"If you handle this right, you may be able to sneak an additional man into an overwatch position, if only to make sure they don't already have snipers trained on you on your approach. The best time is to get in position around 3:30 PM when there will be helicopters from the news station overflying the port to give their first traffic reports of the evening. That should cover up the sound of your approach." That was the quickest route for them to capture the freeway conditions on both the Interstate highways through downtown Oakland as well as the Bay Bridge.

"That's what we'll do. Keith, you come with me and Thomas. Clay and Piney, can you take care of the rest?"

"You bet."

INTERSTATE 580, TRACY, CALIFORNIA

Alejandro picked up the Motorola car phone as the Mayan driver steered their vehicle along a part of Interstate 580 running through the open farmland of San Joaquin County. Several Mayans followed behind them on their BMW and Suzuki motorcycles. He knew the signal might get spotty as they approached Charming, so he had to make the call to Oakland now.

" _Donde estan?_ Where are you now?" Frisco asked from the port warehouse.

"We just stopped for gas in Tracy. We're back on the 580 now, should be at Morada Hills State Park in about a half hour. Is Benito still being held there? We must make sure before we attack the location."

Frisco looked once more at the blinking dot on the computer screen, still impressed with the new technology. "Yes, they haven't moved at all. This atlas doesn't show the details about the park, just that the eastern section is a campground and that's where Benito's signal is coming from. The end of Wahewa Lake Drive."

"We can figure that out on site, don't worry," Alejandro said.

"I don't think they'll be moving him anywhere far, so don't forget to make sure nobody's watching the trails." Frisco was referring to their plan to enter the state park via the back hiking trails rather than the main entrance where the park rangers collected fees. While the Sons easily took their prisoners inside by van, they fit in as locals. Morada Hills wasn't one of those California state parks frequented by outside visitors, so a group of Hispanic bikers would definitely attract undue attention.

"I understand. We'll be careful. The Sons die today."

PIER 3, PORT OF OAKLAND – INDUSTRIAL AREA

Sure enough, the first of the news stations' traffic choppers overflew the port as JT, Piney and Thomas arrived at Pier 3, a long rotting wharf that covered the area of several city blocks with several cross streets on it. Keith McGee also accompanied them in the van, but as JT slowed down to round a corner, he quickly dove out the side door and made his way behind a dumpster, then approached a fire escape heading to the top of an abandoned steel mill. Keith felt in his element here, as Oakland was as close as anywhere in California got to the gritty dockyards of Belfast and Queens. He made his way quickly up the fire escape and emerged inside the building, careful to limit his exposure in case the Mayans had scouts on the rooftops surveilling the area. Keith's sniper rifle had a long enough range to hit a target several hundred feet away though he wanted to get as close to the target as possible.

He saw the faded signs of the Martinez Imports Trading Company rising up amid the superstructures of several large cargo ships and cranes. He took a shortcut, making his way down a catwalk spanning what used to be a major production area of the steel factory. In the meantime, JT pulled the van to a stop in the middle of a T-shaped intersection with derelict warehouses on two sides and an overgrown lot on the third.

"It's time," JT said. "Keep Eduardo inside the van. I'm not releasing him until I see Megan."

"Let's hope Keith got it covered up top," Thomas said. His main apprehension, though, was the thought of seeing what else the Mayans had done to Megan. If only he had never struck up that conversation with her at the bar, none of this would have happened to her. And through their entire relationship, she had wanted him to leave the criminal life behind, yet he couldn't resist the money that came with the drug business. Despite the guilt he felt, he also knew that it would be difficult for him to leave this kind of life behind.

JT squeezed Thomas on the shoulder. "We did everything we could, brother."

"No matter what, I'm going after Frisco. We may never have another chance. There's so much Benito and Eduardo were able to keep from us."

JT nodded. "I know you haven't been in battle before, but make no mistake, we're deep in enemy territory and if we're to make it out alive, you need to follow my lead. But I promise you, we'll do the most that the situation allows us to." Yes, these weren't trained soldiers, but most of these Mayans had spent their entire lives on the killing streets of Mexico, which they had now brought to Oakland.

JT was about to question where the Mayans were when he heard the rumble of motorcycle engines, then the sound of wheels on gravel. He looked around again, and Keith looked through his scope, and the entire area seemed abandoned following the steel plant closures, which also mothballed the surrounding part of the port and shipyard.

Frisco was the first to dismount his bike, followed by several other Mayans wearing their kuttes, who walked over to Frisco with what want meant to be intimidating swaggers. All of them made an attempt to stare down JT and Thomas, but neither of the Sons flinched.

"John Teller! You came!" Frisco shouted down the block. There had been a couple homeless people in the area, but they immediately scampered away, not even bothering to push their shopping carts away with them. "Looks like we're all here for the party!"

"Let's cut the bullshit, Frisco!" JT shouted back across the empty expanse of the abandoned, trash-strewn industrial street, giving up any pretense or forced politeness. "Where's Megan?"

"I need to see Benito and Eduardo first!" Frisco yelled. "Those are my terms."

"No, we'll give you Eduardo and myself. Then once Megan's safe, you get Eduardo back. One step at a time, just to make sure you're not playing any stupid games!"

" _Bien,"_ Frisco said, then motioned to some of his men who were beyond Frisco's line of sight. "Bring her here." He then smiled to himself. "I can't wait to see their reaction."

MORADA HILLS STATE PARK – CAMPGROUND

After double checking a local map he picked up at the Arco gas station in Tracy, Alejandro found an alternative route to the campground that bypassed Morada Hills State Park's main entrance where the rangers collected the fees. Alejandro was well aware that this was Sons country and knew it was possible the rangers or other law enforcement stationed here might be loyal to the Sons and call the cabin to warn them of the Mayans' arrival.

Instead, he led the other Mayans down a local country road that cut through several cattle ranches before climbing into the Morada Hills, a geographic anomaly that many Charming residents flocked to for hiking, fishing, and boating especially in the summer. While it was September now, the weather was still warm and traffic at the main entrance had been backed up. After some more driving, the road they were on cut through a corner of the park, and then there was a narrow but paved maintenance road that led directly to a scenic loop than ran one hilly ridge away from the campground where the cabin stood.

Fortunately there weren't any park vehicles driving down the maintenance road. Of course Alejandro and his thugs had no qualms about killing anyone who got in their way, but they preferred to not deal with the hassle of hiding the bodies until their objective here in the park was complete.

Alejandro left two Mayans to guard the bikes parked at a turnoff on the scenic parkway and brought four others to go on foot, following first a little-used hiking trail then making their own way through the undergrowth. _Even the Sons couldn't have known,_ Alejandro thought, smiling to himself. They had no idea the Mayans were aware Benito really wasn't going to be exchanged at the Oakland pier. They had used the car phone to make a final call to Oscar, who double checked the tracking equipment and confirmed that Benito was indeed being held just over the ridge that Alejandro was looking down.

"You sure its coming from there?" Alejandro asked.

" _Si,_ I compared the position on the computer with this map," Oscar replied, his fingers tracing the position on a state park map from a state map. "It shows the signal is coming from the fourth cabin from the left."

"Can you tell specifically where inside?"

"No, this is as much detail as we can see."

"Okay, we got it," Alejandro replied then motioned for the four Mayans to attacked the cabin and retrieve Benito as he stayed back to observe their movements.

The Mayans crept through the woods and into the campground, which in addition to a dozen log cabins sat amid a hillside also had several RV sites, bathhouses, and a game room. This time in the afternoon, it was deserted as most of the people renting this campground were out fishing and boating or touring the park. Amazing how the Sons could hide their captives in a place like this, though.

Inside the cabin, Clay Morrow saw the Mayans approaching across the large gravel path that ran through the campground.

"Piney, the bastards are here," he said as Piney came out from the other room with his weapons ready.

"Four guys," Clay gave him an update as the Mayans continued to approach.

"More in the woods I'm sure. Another fucking army."

"I reckon after we drop even more bodies, the other charters will have had enough of Frisco's bullshit."

Clay nodded to Piney. "Ready?"

Clay then strode up and fired a shotgun blast out the window. The blast struck on the Mayans in the chest, sending him flying backwards dead. Piney took his M-16 and fired several rounds out the door as the Mayans took cover.

 _"Hijos de putas!"_ one of the three surviving Mayans cursed. " _Ataquen la casa! Rapidamente!"_

The three men opened fire with their East German assault rifles, spraying the cabin with several bursts of gunfire as Piney and Clay managed to squeeze off a few rounds, none of them hitting.

" _Cuidado!_ Careful not to hit Benito, we don't know where inside they're holding him!" the Mayan shouted.

"I'm going in, _listos?"_ another Mayan said then the group kicked down the front door.

From his vantage point, Alejandro saw the three Mayans charge into the cabin. A few seconds later, he heard a loud boom and felt the ground shake as a large explosion ripped the cabin off its fountains, a fireball rising into the sky. He could hear windows breaking in several of the nearby cabins and vehicles. Around him, some twigs were shaken loose and rained down on him in the forest and he almost lost his footing.

" _Madre de Dios,"_ he gasped. " _Hijos de putas."_

Then he saw Piney and Clay run through the smoke, their M-16 assault rifles drawn. They had retreated out the back door and detonated their Claymore explosives by remote control, from the safety of a natural depression in the far side of the woods.

"I see movement on the treeline. It's their overwatch position!" Clay said.

Both he and Piney opened up on the ridge. Alejandro tried to shoot back but he suddenly found he was too exposed. Soon, the other Sons would be there too, he figured. Alejandro rolled out of the line of fire and started running down the other ledge. He saw Clay get on a motorcycle and start making his way up the moderately steep hill.

Alejandro began shouting for the two Mayans on the bikes to get ready. "It's a trap! The Sons are coming for us! _Arriba! Arriba!_ Make sure my bike's running! Stop them!"

That side of the hill was too rocky for the bikes so the two Mayans went on foot. One of the Mayans opened fire on Clay's bike as he went over the ridge, striking it in the wheels. Clay lost control and fell off the bike, tumbling through the woods. Alejandro wanted to go in for the kill, but saw another man in a Sons of Anarchy kutte approaching from his right, holding an Uzi submachine gun.

Alejandro noticed his rifle was jammed and took out his pistol, firing several shots at the other Son just as Clay got back on his feet and began pursuing him.

However, Clay was forced to take cover again as automatic fire pocketed the tree trunks around him. He saw the two Mayan reinforcements were trying to flush him out and take him down. It was clear that these Mayans weren't used to fighting in the woods. Now unlike in Vietnam, he was the guerilla fighting on his home turf, Clay thought to himself. _I got you, motherfucker._

This distraction allowed Alejandro to focus on escaping the other Son, and he made his way off a rocky overlook, tumbling down the hills, rolling over and over again in pain, bruising himself all over his body but he had to do whatever he could to escape this ambush.

Instead of continuing to fire, Clay crawled along a creek bed heading down the hill toward the scenic drive. The Mayans were confused by the sudden lack of return fire after rushing into a small clearing, where they stepped into a small puddle, soaking their shoes with muddy water.

"Fuck!" one of them said.

"Where the fuck did he go?" the other Mayan mouthed. He then fired his gun several times into the air and yelled. "You fucking coward killed Benito and you don't have the _cajones_ to show your face? I'm going to find you, motherfucker! _Vas a morir!_ You hear me, you cowboy motherfucker? _"_

"Loud and clear, _pendejo,"_ Clay whispered to himself, then emerged from the creek bed. The first Mayan was shot three times through the back, the bullets penetrating his internal organs and coming out the other side. His comrade saw him gasp and drop with both sides of his shirt stained with blood. He landed in a puddle with a bloody splash.

The other Mayan fired his pistol in the direction that Clay's shots had come from, but then there was silence except for the cascading waters of the creek, the rustling of the leaves in a gentle breeze.

"I know you're here somewhere. _Puta madre._ "

Clay stood back up from his spot in the creek and shot the man in the stomach. The Mayan returned fire, getting four shots off but Clay was now behind some large ferns. As he was reloading, Clay came forward again and finished off the Mayan with two more shots to the chest.

MORADA HILLS STATE PARK – SCENIC LOOP

By this time, Alejandro had made it down to the bikes. He opened fire in the direction of the woods, but was met by more furious gunfire from both Clay's pistol and the other Son's Uzi carbine, which was far more powerful. He knew he had to retreat. He opened fire into the trees again, forcing Clay to duck and take cover. There was chaos among the light traffic on the scenic road as drivers quickly sped away from the sound of gunfire coming from the woods. The cloud of black smoke rising into the sky from the campground on the other side of the hill only contributed to the panic, and several park police units had also been notified already, with two squad cars speeding away from the ranger station at the state park headquarters.

Alejandro quickly turned the ignition on his bike as he saw that the other Son had also made his way down the hill. The Son opened up with his Uzi again, but Alejandro floored the accelerator and sped off. He near rode diagonally as he went to the other side of the sedan they had arrived in, using it as cover. Bullets from the Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun tore through the vehicle, sending pieces of the leather seats into the air and striking the engine block, steam coming out of the ruined radiator.

He looked back and saw that his pursuer had now grabbed one of the Mayans' other BMW motorcycles with the clear intention of chasing him down. Alejandro looked ahead and saw that the scenic road went through a series of switchbacks as it went through rock formations and other pieces of forestland, heading downhill. _Shit_ , he thought. Each large curve on the road slowed him down a bit. He was used to Oakland's grid street pattern. Very few curves where he was from aside from a couple of the newer flyover interchanges on the major freeways.

He saw that his pursuer, though, was not delayed a single bit. In fact, the mysterious rider in the SOA motorcycle jacket took a shortcut right through the woods, expertly making his way through the pine trees and jumping over several fallen logs on the forest floor, coming back onto the road only ten car lengths behind him. A small Volkswagen Beetle honked as the Son came out of nowhere and appeared right in front of it. The rider ignored the horn and continued picking up speed now that he was back on blacktop. Alejandro pulled his pistol back out of his motorcycle jacket and fired behind him, but the difficulty of navigating his bike at the same time caused his aim to go high. He wondered where that Son had learned to ride one of the Mayans' bikes. He always thought the American models were very different.

The park police had set up a roadblock up ahead, two officers in their tan uniforms getting out of their vehicles with their guns drawn. Alejandro turned his attention to them and opened fire, gunning down the first cop just as he aimed at the bikers. He missed the other officer, but the gunfire and the bike forced him to jump out of the way beyond the shoulder. The other Son continued bearing down on them. The cop managed to run back onto the road and open fire, discharging his weapon four times, but none of the bikers were hit.

Now the road finally straightened out as it entered a flat piece of the pine forest. Alejandro felt a sharp pain as several Uzi rounds struck his lower back, coming out through his kidneys and splattering blood onto his handlebars. The force of the rounds and the pain caused him to lose control of the bike. Alejandro hit a boulder on the side of the road and flew forward off his bike, slamming into a tree twenty feet above the ground then falling back down. He tried to move through the pain but couldn't. It was clear that his back was broken by the impact.

The other BMW bike came to a stop and his pursuer cut the engine, walking over and taking off his motorcycle helmet. To Alejandro's extreme shock, it was none other than Benito Chavarria.

"I know your head must be spinning right now, and not just from the collision," Benito said, looming over Alejandro. "Like what the fuck is going on?"

"Benito….you…..fucking traitor…." Alejandro said, gurgling on his own blood.

"Actually no, I'm not," Benito said, no longer trying to hide his American accent as he spoke Spanish. "I was never one of you."

Benito nodded as Alejandro looked at him in shock. "I've been keeping some secrets for the past three years. Maybe now you understand why your attack on Otto Moran and Wayne Unser's homes in Charming failed. My real name is Chico Villenueva. I was born and raised in Charming, and I'm a member of the Sons of Anarchy."

"You….fuck…." Alejandro standard.

"No, fuck _you, mojado"_ Chico said before firing a bullet into Alejandro's brain.

 _Author's Note: I know some of y'all are probably very surprised at the twist, but it will be explained in the next couple installments I promise. And if you go back and re-read the previous chapters carefully, everything should hopefully make sense._


	20. The Mayan Brother

CHAPTER 20: THE MAYAN BROTHER

PIER 3 - ABANDONED WHARF, OAKLAND MARINE TERMINAL

The Mayans brought a woman over into the middle of the intersection, prodding her to move faster. A Mayan accompanied her closely with a gun pressed against her back.

"Here's what's left of your _puta_ , Thomas!" Frisco screamed with a taunting laugh. "Now JT and Eduardo will come forward like we agreed!" Frisco looked at JT with anticipation.

Except it wasn't Megan at all. The young woman the Mayans were presenting to JT was in fact a prostitute from one of the Mayans' whorehouses. She had tried to escape and had to be taught a lesson. It just so happened they needed a girl to sacrifice. Frisco couldn't believe the coincidence. Killing two birds with one stone, is what the Americans would say. Deal with the Sons and send a message to the other trafficked sex slaves at the same time.

From his perch on the rooftop, Keith zoomed in further with his binoculars. JT and Thomas glanced upward ever so slightly, careful not to tip off the Mayans that they had another man with them on overwatch. JT so wished he could call up command on the radio and have some napalm dropped on the block that was no doubt crawling with Mayans, but now he wore the biker patch, not the uniform, and Thomas and Keith were all there was now. Hiding underneath a large exhaust pipe that snaked across the steel plant's roof, Keith now saw there were two Mayans on top of the Martinez Imports Trading Company next door.

Everything about the situation was off. Yes, this was a mostly abandoned part of the port and it made sense the Mayans would set up their cover operation here, but Martinez Imports didn't seem to be seeing any regular activity at all. He double checked his sniper rifle then grabbed the binoculars again as two Mayans and the woman walked down the street toward JT and Thomas.

Keith knew exactly what to look for, focusing on the woman's neck. Sure enough, both her arms and ears had been cut off, and blood seeped through the many bandages around her head, but the Wahewa tattoo that Megan had wasn't there. Frisco had never imagined this small detail to be a problem as when the Sons got close enough, it was supposed to be too late. Keith made a quick thumbs down signal then immediately switched back to his rifle, taking quick aim at the Mayan gunmen on the roof. One was facing his direction but must have not seen him. The silenced bullet immediately dropped him to the roof before he noticed anything was off.

JT turned to Thomas. "It's not her," he said grimly.

"We need to make sure, we ….."

"I trust Keith on this. You yourself told him to look for the tattoo and it ain't there." Look, we both knew it was a long shot. We only came because of the slight possibility…."

"Megan!" Thomas called out.

There was no acknowledge from the woman, no look of recognition at all. Thomas's heart sank. Either it really wasn't her, or she had been so understandably traumatized by what these scumbags had done to her that she wasn't herself anymore.

Frisco continued walking forward. "Bring Eduardo and Benito to me first!" he shouted. "You better not be playing any fucking games with us, _cabrones!_ "

JT took his pistol and fired a single shot hitting one of the Mayans holding the woman in the head. A second shot in quick succession dropped another Mayan next to him. Thomas in turn discharged his own gun straight into the back of Eduardo's head. With that, the Mayans went into disarray.

"Frisco! They must know! Take them out!" the translator shouted, raising his own gun, shooting and killing the woman.

The other Mayan on the rooftop was facing the street, observing the exchange and the beginning showdown. Keith got him in his crosshairs and pulled the trigger, the man falling off the roof and landing in the middle of the street with a loud thump and a cloud of dust.

"Kill them! _Vamo! Vamo!"_ Frisco shouted, unleashing a heavy barrage of automatic weapons fire from his AK-47. The street provided very little cover, but JT went behind an abandoned mail container and Thomas behind a forlorn looking tree that still managed to grow in the grim landscape.

"Keith! Take out Frisco! Do it now!" JT shouted as bullets whizzed by his ear.

Thomas used Eduardo's dead body as a shield and heard several bullets strike it. He then raised his gun and managed to shoot dead one of the Mayans gunning for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, however, Keith saw a door open on the roof of Martinez Imports and another Mayan emerge on the roof, going straight for his direction. Keith fired a sniper bullet through his throat, the man falling back into the stairwell. Keith then threw his hand grenade, knowing more hostiles were probably coming. His aim was perfect. The grenade exploded inside the stairwell and he could hear the screams of at least two more Mayans as they were blown apart by the blast.

JT fired several times and saw Frisco collapse onto the sidewalk. When he looked again to make sure his enemy was dead, however, JT felt a sharp pain on his arm and saw a splatter of blood. He had just been grazed by two of the bullets.

"Fuck, we should retreat back around the corner!" Thomas said. His grief that they had not brought Megan out alive was now replaced by his desire for self-preservation in the heat of battle.

"We need to counterattack now if we're to make it out alive!" JT yelled back. "Their weapons' range can reach us all the way back to the last intersection, we'll never make it!"

JT took a little comfort in the fact that these weren't trained soldiers, though if they squeezed enough bullets some were bound to hit their mark. By charging straight at the Mayans and with Keith still on the roof, they just might confuse their enemies enough to make it out of here.

By now, two Mayans were dragged a motionless Frisco along the ground, approaching one of the entrances for Martinez Imports. Four more Mayans were taking aim at Thomas and JT. Keith turned his attention back to the street and took down one of the gunmen with a bullet to the head. There was some frantic shouting as the hostiles debated quickly amongst themselves. Then two of them turned their attention to the steel plant roof.

Oscar turned around from his computer in surprise as he heard several Mayans rushing forward, carrying Frisco. " _Que en la chingada?_ What the fuck?"

Frisco began moaning and moving slightly.

"The gringos brought more people!" the first Mayan carrying Frisco said.

" _Mierda!"_ Oscar cursed. "Tell the men to defend this building, hold them off. You two come with me. We'll take Frisco to Plaza Maya. _Rapido! Vamo!"_

Keith ducked out of sight as the Mayans reloaded and fired more rounds. The clanging of the pistol shots and automatic rounds echoed loudly along the metal sidings of the building, and bullets ricocheted in all directions.

JT charged forward, with his M-16 now, gunning down one of the hostiles, the Mayans dropping to the ground in a heap. They saw another Mayan fall to Keith's sniper rifle, but by now Frisco and the two men dragging his body were gone.

"I'm gonna fucking go in there and kill them all!" Thomas shouted, putting another round in the chamber. The Mayan translator was hit in the leg and was crawling on the sidewalk as his comrades continued to retreat into the building.

The translator raised his hands in the air. "Please, gringo! I speak English! If you get Frisco I can translate for you!"

Thomas raised his assault rifle to the Mayan's head. "This needs no fucking translation." He fired a string of bullets, blowing the translator's head into pieces before he and JT stepped over his body, entering the Mayan property.

MARTINEZ IMPORTS TRADING COMPANY

Three gunshots rang out as they made their way past the plastic tarp in one of the loading docks where the trucks usually came to pick up the Mayans' drugs, weapons, prostitutes and the occasional legal shipment. JT saw several stacks of crates before them, and knew the Mayan was probably hiding behind one of them. Thankfully, Keith had now made his way across the roof and was directly facing the Mayans' warehouse, which allowed him a wide view inside.

Seeing JT and Thomas's position, he pulled the pin off a grenade and threw it onto the stacks of crates, far from where the Sons were. JT and Thomas both covered their ears as the loud blast reverberated through the cavernous warehouse, the metal sidings in the industrial area worsening the echoes. JT went through the smoke and saw two disoriented Mayans stumbling around. He shot the first Mayan in the heart, then quickly turned and dropped the second Mayan with two shots to the chest before either of them even noticed him through the thick smoke.

Then, there was nothing but silence as the smoke gradually cleared. JT had expected more resistance as they approached the offices overlooking the main warehouse floor. That would have been an ideal elevated position where the Mayans could have set up a shooters, but there was nothing. All they heard was the distant sound of a vehicle driving away, and then just the crackling sounds of the burning flames from where the grenades had ignited some materials in the crates and the sound of seagulls flying through the air.

JT kept his gun drawn as they exited the warehouse onto the rusty pier that jutted several hundred feet out from the harbor. "Looks clear."

They heard some footsteps behind them and Thomas immediately turned around, pointing his gun. It was only Keith.

"Anything? Find Frisco's body?" Keith inquired in his Northern Irish dialect.

"No, he's gone," JT said, his mouth clenched in frustration. He then looked further down toward the end of the pier and saw a rusty silver shipping container with its door ajar. He put his hands to his lips, silencing the other as he quietly approached it, making sure to step to the side in case anyone inside was observing them.

JT gagged uncontrollably as a breeze blew toward him from the direction of the container. It smelled like a South Vietnamese village after the communists had engaged in a mass slaughter. _Fuck, this ain't good._ He saw the look in Thomas's eyes as they took the final few steps to the container door. It was as if Thomas was already prepping himself for what was inside.

Yet there was nothing that could have prepared him for the ghastly scene inside. Megan's body was still tied to the chair, with blood splattered all over the walls. It was clear that this was a torture chamber that had also seen other victims. Not only did Thomas gasp at Megan's severed arms and ears, her chest had been punctured by over a dozen stab wounds. Above all, the distorted, anguished look on Megan's face was something that would haunt Thomas for the rest of his life.

"Thomas, I'm so sorry, brother," JT said quietly. Keith looked downward and didn't say a word, though he began to slowly shake his head.

Thomas grabbed JT by the collar and slammed him into the wall of the shipping container. "Fuck you, JT! This is all your goddamn fault!"

"Hey! Calm down!" Keith said, moving in toward them.

"Fuck you too!" Thomas then turned his attention back to JT. "You wanted to hold out, try to get more info from Eduardo and the Hondurans, and we got shit! This is all because of you!"

JT shoved Thomas back and blocked a blow from Thomas. "We put this plan out to a vote, you went along with it. We both knew it was unlikely Frisco would have…."

"Yeah, all of you pressured me to go along with it in the vote! You can go to hell!"

Thomas attacked JT again, pushing him over a small desk, which he tripped over himself. Keith grabbed Thomas from behind, but Thomas kicked him in the stomach, sending him hurtling out of the container.

Thomas lunged at JT, but he blocked the blow and swept him off his feet, sending him back to the ground. JT followed through with a punch to Thomas's neck that got him out of the fight without causing him serious injury. Keith came over and put a strong hold on Thomas, who unsuccessfully tried to force the Irishman off of him.

"We did everything we could! I swear to God! Fuck!" JT shouted, his own voice filled with desperation.

JT certainly felt Thomas's pain, but the truth was that coming into this, they knew the possibility of finding Megan dead had always been very high. Yes, she had been brutally tortured and gang raped, but that went with the territory for the Mayans. But yes, he had miscalculated and underestimated the difficulty of getting Eduardo to break. Chico couldn't break his cover as Benito as that would have only increased Eduardo and the Hondurans' resolve. JT had figured the only way to truly end this war was to extract from their prisoners all of Frisco's major hiding places. Yes, their clubhouse was at the Plaza Maya restaurant, but Frisco himself was rarely there unless there was a charter meeting and he had properties even Chico didn't know about, since he wasn't a senior club member like Eduardo was.

"Now can we let go of you now?" Keith said.

Thomas was still shaking. "Yeah."

He then went back across the blood-stained floor to Megan's half naked body and cradled it in his arms, running his fingers through her long dark hair and closing her lifeless eyes, giving her face just a slight semblance of final peace.

MAYANS CLUBHOUSE

"AHHHHHH! _Puta madre!"_ Frisco yelled out in pain from the sofa in the Mayans clubhouse.

"It's okay, we got the bullet out! We just have to sow your wound back together, _patron,"_ said the illegal student from the University of California – San Francisco Medical School. While this young man obviously wasn't a member of the club, he understood Frisco's prestige in the community and appreciated the fact that the Mayans kept both the police and the immigration authorities out of the barrio.

"It's fine," Frisco grunted, looking the young man in the eye. "You know I appreciate what you've done for me."

"No, _patron,_ everything you've done for our barrio, for _nuestra gente,_ our people, this is only the least I can do to repay you." A waiter from the Plaza Maya Restaurant brought up a plate of food from the kitchen.

Frisco nodded, then was interrupted by the phone ringing. Oscar answered it, then walked it over to their charter president, glad that the cord was long enough that Frisco didn't have to get up and they didn't have to move the couch.

"It's Geraldo, _jefe_ " Oscar said. "He needs to speak with you now."

" _Pues, vamo!"_ Frisco motioned for him to hurry up in bringing him the phone.

" _Si?"_ Frisco said simply into the receiver.

Geraldo sat in his wood-paneled study, glancing out at his large front yard and his kids riding their bikes along the suburban street. "Frisco, the last time we spoke, you promised me you would have these issues resolved."

So Geraldo knew what was going on, Frisco thought, then anger filled his mind. The national president hadn't even cared to ask about his injury, and the losses his businesses had sustained.

" _Patron,_ the gringo cowards deceived us! Benito Chavarria was never one of us, that was not even his real name. His name is Chico Villenueva," Frisco spoke the name with contempt, "He's a fucking coconut who really grew up in Charming with the gringos. He had been operating for them undercover for our club so he could pass information to his friends in Charming, so they could jack our shipments."

"And yet _you_ failed to discover this when you checked his background. You allowed him to be a prospect, even patched him in, even made him an officer. You're saying he was spying for his friends under your nose even before they became the Sons?"

" _Patron, con todo respecto…"_

 _"_ Shut the fuck up, you worthless piece of shit!" Geraldo shouted in English, which probably exhausted Frisco's knowledge of the language, before switching back to Spanish. "So your idiocy has caused us even more harm than this Sons business! This also explains why several of the Salvadorans' stash houses have been hit in the past 3 years! We are only now recovering from the loss of the Salvadoran connection. This is _all_ your fault, Francisco!"

" _Por favor, jefe, lo siento para estas problems,_ I am truly sorry about the problems, but we have done everything we could to fix everything." Frisco could feel his opportunity for revenge slipping away from him.

"And you will do nothing more," Geraldo said with finality, taking a seat in his plush office chair.

"Excuse me, _jefe,_ I don't understand."

"I think you do, Frisco," replied Geraldo. "You are not to take any further action against the Sons of Anarchy. Myself and others close to me will attempt to smooth out the mess you've caused. As we discussed, the national office will no longer support your war. We sacrificed our men, our money, our reputation for nothing because of your incompetence."

These insults were grating on Frisco's ears. How dare Geraldo speak to him that way? They had known each other since they were teens in Mexico, shaking down market vendors and store owners for protection money. They built the club up together. He felt he was still entitled to more respect than he was being given, despite Geraldo's higher status.

"So what now for us?" Frisco asked.

"You will appear before the national council where we will decide whether you are fit to continue in your leadership role. For now, you will go back to focusing on business instead of revenge. Focus on the women. We need a wider selection of pussy in your nightclub and in your streets. All this business with American soldiers had me thinking. Some of these GIs, they go to Vietnam, have some R and R in Thailand, they develop a taste for Asian women. We Mayans can satisfy that need. I don't care how you do it. Go to Chinatown and kidnap some girls if you have to. If you manage to actually do this right, we may even allow you to keep your patch. _Claro?"_

" _Si, patron,"_ Frisco replied. There was nothing else he could say at the moment.

SOA CLUBHOUSE

Chico Villenueva felt an indescribable sense of comfort as he took the exit from Highway 99 and entered the classic streets of downtown Charming. He cruised past the Charming police station and city hall on the Harley he hadn't ridden for three years, wearing a generic leather jacket over his denim shirt. He saw the Swamp Fox Tavern and thought how long it had been since he had an ice cold Budweiser there, or for that matter sat in Harvey's Restaurant and ate a decent all-American meal of steak and eggs with a slide of biscuits and gravy. Being undercover with the Mayans meant that he ate only Mexican food, drank only Mexican beer and tequila, and listened to only Latin music for the past three years of his life.

Yes, the Mayans knew him as Benito Chavarria, an illegal alien who was brought to America at a young age and lived mostly in South San Francisco until moving to Oakland in his senior year of high school after his parents' divorce. He had also turned his back on his suburban background after jocks from the football team vandalized his car with racist messages telling him to "go back to Mexico". It was the perfect cover story to explain his rusty Spanish, his unfamiliarity with the intricacies of traditional Mexican culture, and his fervent desire to join the barrio's violent street culture. It also played into the Mayans' stereotypical beliefs about what America was like beyond the barrio.

In reality, Chico was born at Charming's St. Thomas Hospital to legal Mexican American immigrants who started out working at Oswald Beef's processing plant on the south side of town. He had a idyllic childhood until seventh grade or so, when he started running around with a rough crowd that included Otto Moran and Wally Glazer. It all began when Wally had convinced him to leave school early one day and smoke a joint of weed that he had gotten from some friends in Oakland. The next step was getting drunk on bourbon in the basement of Otto's house while Otto's absentee parents were getting drunk at the Swamp Fox and other local honky tonks.

Soon, Chico was joining Otto, Wally, and more of their friends in pickpocketing wallets at shopping centers, siphoning gas from parked cars to fill their motorcycles, and committing burglaries in the richer parts of town. All three of them had been expelled when they were caught selling marijuana to their fellow students during a Charming High School basketball game, and a search of Chico's locker had turned up a large stash of drugs he had intended to distribute in school the next day. Chico also saw his first taste of violence at this time. Otto discovered it was another student who had snitched on them in exchange for reduced disciplinary actions. The boy in question came from a "good family" that expected him to go to college and become a doctor, and disciplinary school records couldn't get in the way of that.

Chico, Wally, and Otto broke into the kid's home and dealt him a brutal beating that put him in the hospital and left him scarred for life. This time, he was afraid to name any of them. Soon after, the snitch's parents withdrew him from Charming High School and transferred him to a private school all the way in Stockton.

The three of them had no interest in going back to school, so none of them appealed their expulsions despite the school board telling Chico's parents he had a good chance if he would show remorse and enter a special program offered by a local church. They knew they would never make it too big bringing marijuana from the Wahewa reservation in Charming. The Bay Area was where it was at. That was when Chico, who turned out to be the most ambitious of the three, thought of the idea to go undercover with the Mayans, whose territory was the nexus of the drug pipelines crisscrossing Northern California.

Through the Mayans, Chico was able to obtain information about the other gangs they did business with and the location of various stash houses all over the area. Using the intel Chico provided, the Charming crew had hit two properties in the suburban East Bay slum of Richmond owned by a Salvadoran gang. Since Charming wasn't even on their radar, the Salvadorans had assumed it was a Japanese yakuza group they had warred with. Those two raids, however, only yielded modest financial rewards, and Chico wanted to stay undercover with the Mayans until they could make a big enough killing that would get them made financially long-term.

That time would come soon, Chico had told himself, as the Chinese, Koreans, Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans all wanted a piece of the Bay Area. The business the Mayans did with the Weather Underground was only considered a side job, but it turned out fate had a different plan for them after Professor Rogers and his terrorist cell detonated the car bomb at the Armed Forces Credit Union. Chico was never into politics and didn't give a damn about the ongoing conflict in Vietnam one way or another. And if the Soviet Union somehow chose to target little Charming with a nuclear strike, well in that case he was lucky some of his neighbors were paranoid enough to have fortified bunkers under their homes from twenty years ago.

But when the Weathermen attacked first in Lodi and then in Charming itself with the cowardly ambush at the VFW of all places, slaughtering not just local boys who fought in Vietnam but old men who had survived the bloody campaigns in Normandy and Okinawa, Chico knew he had to fight back along with his friends. The communist sympathizers wanted to take their bullshit beyond the cities into the Central Valley. If the FBI was too cowardly to step up to the plate, then the club had to. Sharing the intel about the Weathermen was supposed to be nice and simple, but then Frisco insisted on going to the mall early before the meet to scout the location, something he had never done before.

When the Mayans swore revenge against the Sons, Chico had to become a true mole in the midst of the Mayans. The plan for him to be kidnapped was well-planned, and he even let the Sons torture him for show because he was certain Benito and the Hondurans would give up the information they knew. Especially Benito, who joined the Mayans later than Chico but was promoted first because of his drug connections south of the border. Perhaps from the Mayans' standpoint they were right. Benito was a tough son of a bitch, a true Mexican gangster. Most people would have spilled the beans after experiencing the kind of torture had had.

Each and every one of Chico Villanueva's true brothers hugged and shook hands with him as he entered Teller Automotive Repair, the place where he had worked as a high school student, where he had been shit faced drunk over a dozen times with the rest of the crew, where he worked on his beloved Harley motorcycle at all times of the day and night. But he had never actually been in the private office that served as the chapel before, nor had he ever physically worn a Sons of Anarchy kutte, since he had been patched in in absentia given his undercover activities.

He spoke to Thomas first. "I'm so sorry about Megan, brother. I just need you to know, we did everything we could on our end."

Thomas nodded solemnly. "Yes, I know."

"And about Wally and Otto," Chico said. "That time at the Swamp, I still can't believe that was the last time I'd ever see them."

"We're going to hit back hard," Clay said, "We're going to finish this war."

"The thing is," Chico said, "The Mayan leadership is tired of fighting us and losing all those men in the state park, plus attracting all that law enforcement attention was the last straw. They're sending up some guys from the San Diego charter, which never agreed with Frisco's vendetta, to oversee things while they decide what to do with Frisco."

"I want Frisco's head on a platter, or at least the people personally responsible for butchering Megan," Thomas said.

"I believe the national leadership may be convinced to give him up in exchange for peace," Chico replied.

"You really think so, man?" Clay said skeptically. "No offense, but those are some _real bad hombres."_

"A new generation's coming to power," Chico said, "Geraldo Morales has actually softened up a bit. Or he's smarter than Frisco, smarter enough to understand the reality that things are different this side of the border." In other words, Geraldo knew how bad the violence and attention was for business."

"Let's just hope you're right, Chico," JT said. "But first of all, welcome home, brother."

JT opened up a bag that revealed Chico's Sons of Anarchy kutte. "It's been a long time coming, Chico."

Chico opened up his arms and let JT put on the jacket for him as is customary for the club. With that, the rest of the club broke out in loud cheers and the liquor was quickly brought into the clubhouse. JT didn't know where Chico stood with all the turmoil and undercurrents of dissent within the club, but at least in this very moment, they all felt like one, and he was going to hold on to that feeling while it lasted.

 _Author's Note: Okay should be in the homestretch now for this story and approaching the climax. As y'all can probably imagine its not quite over yet! I just realized the body count is probably much higher than a typical SOA season. It's because I got so used to writing "24" stories. I would love to see more authors in this fandom write more suspense/action based stories in addition to all the romances!_

 _Also couldn't resist the homage to "bad hombres"!_


	21. A Match Made in Hell

CHAPTER 21: A MATCH MADE IN HELL

OCTOBER 18, 1970

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

"Wayne, why the hell couldn't you just tell me who it is?" JT asked. The moment he stepped into the Unser's office, Unser was already out of his chair and motioning JT back toward a door. Unser had called JT at the garage saying that it was urgent, and that there was someone important he had to meet.

"I can't blame you for being suspicious after all the shit that's gone down lately," Unser said as they walked out into a clear bright autumn day, the maple and oak trees that lined Charming's historic downtown streets already in their colorful glory. "But if I told you who it was, you probably wouldn't show up. Well here you are. I'm, um, going to step back and observe from a distance. Make sure nothing gets out of hand, Mr. Teller."

Sitting next to the fountain was a well-dressed Mexican man in a collared shirt and khakis. "I figured this would be an ideal place. So none of us will make any foolish moves." His English, while accented, was smooth and polished. Sitting next to him was a younger Mexican who looked like he was in his late teens, who was dressed more like a suburban high school student than a gangbanger from the barrio.

"And who might you be?" JT asked.

"Geraldo Morales. National President of the Mayans Motorcycle Club."

JT didn't say anything, but maintained a tough smirk to keep him off balance.

"Yes, you can be assured we're alone. If I wanted to ambush you we would have. I personally came all the way up here from L.A. to meet with you," Geraldo told JT.

"I get it. Now's the time when you tell us that you've had enough. That you're going to back off."

"More or less, but not quite as simple," Geraldo said. "A true end to this war requires a lot of negotiation, with many factors taken into account. But for the time being, as we sort things out, I hope we can agree on a cease-fire. I'm sure as a soldier you understand how that works."

"What kind of 'cease-fire'?" JT said.

"First, you no longer have to worry about Frisco Martinez. Our national leadership has given him very clear orders to stand down and stop his attacks against the Sons of Anarchy. None of his men are even to enter San Joaquin County." Geraldo introduced the man to him. "This is Marcus Alvarez, he's the new man in charge in Oakland. I've tasked him with ensuring that Frisco respects this deal, that he understands he's had his chance at revenge and failed. In return, we ask that you keep your club out of Oakland and everything west of the bay."

"After what y'all did to Megan? And Wally? Otto?" JT said angrily. "Everything you've done in this town?"

"Frisco was right about one thing, Mr. Teller. We were not the ones who started this war. _You_ gave the orders that led to Juan Martinez's death. That fact will never change."

"And the long-term?"

"Like I said, that remains to be decided by our national charter. But I hope you agree with me that we've both had enough."

"In that case, I must hold chapel in our clubhouse and bring this to my table for a vote," JT told Geraldo.

"No, JT, you may agree to your future terms later, but for now I'm giving you a chance to walk from this in peace." His tone became just slightly threatening. "The alternative is that we send more men to help Frisco until your club's destroyed. We _can_ defeat you, Mr. Teller. The only question is whether you want to spare yourself and your town from something worse than they've ever seen before."

Geraldo held out his hand. "If you walk away from this, you will regret it."

JT knew that there really wasn't much of a decision at this point. He just hoped that the blow he'd dealt Frisco's charter had truly made the Mayans' national leaders decide this Charming war wasn't worth it anymore.

He shook Geraldo hand then looked him in the eye. "If I find out you're fucking with me, we're going to fight like we've never fought before, and we're going to show you what war's really like."

CLAY MORROW'S RESIDENCE, CHARMING

Clay and Keith McGee were raking the fall leaves in the backyard of his ranch house and putting the tarp over the small backyard swimming pool for the season when they heard the rumble of Thomas's Harley pulling into the long driveway.

"Come on in this way, mate," Keith said in his Northern Irish accent, walking up to the patio as Clay went into the kitchen to grab a six-pack of beer and some scotch.

"I'm glad you came," Clay said. "I know it can be intimidating, bending the club rules and discussing business decisions away from the table."

In fact it was a tough decision for Thomas and he had gone back and forth with himself for over a week. "JT was the one who broke the rules in the first place. He has no fucking right to sue for peace. Did he even care about _my_ input? He doesn't even have an old lady!" Thomas slammed his fists into the table so hard some of the beer came out of the bottles.

"And let's not forget Wally and Otto. They made this club what it was. Without their money and connections, you think JT would have been able to take it this far?"

"We've all sacrificed too much for things to just go back to the way they were," Keith said.

"In fact we've already acted behind JT's back," Clay said. "The truth is, we and our Irish friends are part of the reason Geraldo met with him yesterday. They needed to get the issue of the Weathermen arms shipments resolved too."

"What about that?" Thomas inquired curiously.

"Remember how the IRA helped smuggle the weapons to the Weathermen via the Mayans? The Mayans don't want to deal with guns anymore, but the Irish still want to. Word in Belfast is that if the Conservative Party gains seats in Parliament in the next UK election, the British authorities will step up their efforts against arms trafficking in Northern Ireland, and they want to get rid of some of their excess stockpiles." The IRA already had enough weapons for their own terrorist activities. While they certainly did engage in shootouts with British soldiers, their modus operandi was car bombs.

"This way, Geraldo gets to wash his hands of the gun business without the IRA breathing down his neck. They rather focus on the drugs due to their connections in Mexico."

"JT will never agree to this," Thomas cautioned.

"That's the only way to keep this club intact," Keith said. "We're going to find a new market with the anti-government militias operating here in the Valley, and with the black gangs in Oakland. In exchange, the Irish Kings will take me off their hit list, and we stay in business. And we wash our hands of the Mayan business for now."

"And Frisco?"

"Story is, the Mayan bosses are quite pissed off at Frisco. When everything dies down, they're willing to deliver him to us quietly, Thomas. For your sake, I made sure Geraldo promised that."

"But in exchange, we make sure this war otherwise ends on the Mayans' terms?"

"Yes, but they're really our own terms. You just wait and see."

"I can live with that."

NOVEMBER 1, 1970

MARTINEZ RESIDENCE, OAKLAND

A day after Americans celebrated Halloween, Mexicans celebrated the Day of the Dead. _El_ _Dia de Los Muertos_ competed with Cinco de Mayo and Mexican Independence Day for the biggest celebration in the Oakland barrio. The atmosphere on this day was so contagious that some of their brethren from other Spanish speaking countries joined in the festivities.

Despite the celebratory mariachi, salsa, and ranchero music being played from the parade snaking its way through the Latin barrio, Frisco's mood was as far from festive as can be. His mother urged him to join the parade, but he ignored her and walked into the living room, where the shrine to his brother Juan was still displayed in a place of prominence, including a large Mexican flag and the Mayans kutte he had worn the day he was shot and killed in the exchange with the Sons of Anarchy.

Diego opened the paper liquor store bag and took out a large bottle of tequila, as Oscar came with a six-pack of Dos Equis. They all poured out the alcohol they had brought and looked at the shrine, then upward.

 _"Salud, a nuestra hermano en el cielo,"_ Oscar proposed the toast.

"To Juan," Diego and several of the other Mayans and their prospects repeated as they drank up.

Frisco, however, remained silent through the toast, his head bowed at the altar that the Martinez family had built for Juan.

"Juan, _mi hermano,"_ Frisco said, his voice beginning to shake as he looked at his brother's picture, "I failed you, my brother. I swore before Santa Muerte that we will kill John Teller and his crew who did this to you so you can rest in peace with our ancestors. You….you must know how hard I tried. The other charters, they don't have the _cajones_ or _machismo_ that you had. And because of this, your soul still wanders this Earth in torment for another year."

He then turned to the shrine to Santa Muerte where the fragrant smelling incense was still burning. "I worship you every day, and still you have not answered my prayers!"

Tears of both sadness and rage began falling from Frisco's eyes. He let out an anguished cry, then a scream of fury as he grabbed the tequila bottle out of Diego's hands and hurled it against the wall. He then grabbed a wooden chair and broke it in half, then proceeded to smash the lamps, TV and coffee table in the living room.

"Frisco, listen to me…." Oscar began. "I also seek the same revenge for Alejandro, and I…"

Frisco shoved Oscar hard into a grandfather clock, shattering the glass on it. " _Cayate!_ Shut the fuck up!"

"I failed you, brother!" Frisco screamed again, taking out his pistol and pointing it at his own head. He could not escape the shame of his failure to avenge his own brother's death. His family and charter would lose all respect in the barrio.

"No, Frisco! There is a way! It's not over yet!" Oscar shouted.

"How is it not?" Frisco screamed, punching the wall so hard that his fists left an imprint on it.

"We are not the only ones who want revenge on them," replied Oscar . He then proceeded to lay out his entire plan.

"The Weathermen? They're the ones who got us into this shit!" Frisco said.

"But they have the manpower and the resources, and they have connections in Charming. I think we've all learned we can't go into Charming unless we have connections there. And remember, John Teller chose to attack us knowing we were there. It was as much an attack on our club as it was on the Weathermen."

"And why will they help us?" Frisco asked.

"We are undocumented immigrants of color!" Oscar said cynically, "We use this to our advantage, _si_? We tell them we want social justice, like Antonio did. That we are fighting for the Reconquista of Aztlan. I have friends in the Brown Berets of Aztlan who can vouch for us. That bunch of gringos will fall right over for that." Aztlan was a radical leftist movement supporting open borders and claiming that the Southwest still rightfully belonged to Mexico.

"You and I both know none of us give a shit about La Reconquista."

"But they don't need to know that. We just need to convince them we want the same thing. I do know people in college. They told me how students like the Weathermen think. So many of these rich gringo kids at Berkeley gave speeches supporting the undocumented students who took over the student union at UCLA and demanded they create a Chicano studies program."

Frisco thought for a long time and finally nodded. "And you are sure we can make this work?"

" _Si, patron._ Though I must warn you, if we do this, we turn our backs on everything we know. Can you live with that?"

"Of course. What I can't live with is Juan's death unavenged. Diego, you in or out?"

"I will follow you to the grave, _patron,_ " the thug replied.

NOVEMBER 3, 1970

RENO, NEVADA

It was supposed to be a typical meet in a nondescript alleyway in between two industrial warehouses. This was the "normal" part of the Biggest Little City in the World, far from the glittering casino hotels by the Reno Arch. The Mayans were supposed to pick up a delivery of counterfeit U.S. greenbacks produced by a local criminal outfit. There was no reason to believe law enforcement was suspecting anything, but the Mayans always erred on the side of caution, so these meets always took place quickly in a different location every time. Back in Mexico, just about any cop could be bribed, but this was America.

Several times a year, the Mayans Oakland charter would drive over to Reno and pick up several bags of counterfeit cash to be transported not only back to Oakland but to the sister chapter in Fresno, where an outlaw biker presence was beginning to form among the illegal immigrants working in the citrus fruit business. They crossed the border illegally to make money. Why can't they do other illegal things to make money, many of them asked themselves, and the Mayans were happy to oblige. Multiple bikers always came and took separate routes to their various destinations, so the entire shipment would not be lost if there was a run-in with the law.

The counterfeiters showed up right on time, Frisco saw as he, Oscar, Diego, and several other Mayans observed from the parking lot of a laundromat. The van their associates came in had the markings of a baked goods company that sold its products in the Reno area, as this was their cover. The delivery vans allowed them to transport the counterfeit cash, while the industrial nature of their legitimate operation helped mask the energy usage of their counterfeiting machines that would otherwise be glaringly suspicious.

" _Vamo,"_ Frisco said as he revved his bike and drove down the block and into the alleyway.

" _Como estas, amigos?"_ said the leader of the outfit, a man who indeed looked the part of a typical gringo businessman. That was probably the only Spanish he knew. He left the rest of his talking to the one native Spanish speaker on the crew, which was helpful as the Mayans had lost their most skilled translator following "Benito Chavarria"'s betrayal.

"I just want to make sure there's no mistake. You said you need $300,000 this time." He spoke Spanish with a very obvious Cuban accent.

"Yes, you heard us right," Frisco replied.

The leader of the counterfeiting outfit said something in English to the Cuban, who then continued to translate.

"That's much more than usual. Just want to be absolutely sure. We do know your club has run into some challenges these past few months."

"Nothing we aren't in the process of handling," Frisco told them. "I assure you that you can continue to count on our business. We have the money right here." Frisco opened up a carrier bag. "I promise you _this_ cash is real." He forced a smile, pretending to have a sense of humor.

The leader laughed loudly and took the bag to further examine it, taking out some of the wads of cash and looking at it carefully.

As he was doing so, Frisco pulled out a silenced machine pistol from inside his leather jacket and shot him in the head. Before the Cuban and the other counterfeiters realized what had just happened, the other Mayans did the same and gunned them all down in a matter of seconds, their bodies slumping against the van or against the walls of the alleyway.

The Mayans quickly loaded the bodies into the van, and one of them got into the driver's seat. Six hours later, all $3 million in the van were in the Martinez Imports Trading Company in Oakland. The van itself was driven off the dock and into the waters of San Francisco Bay.

MARSH CREEK DETENTION FACILITY, CONTRA COSTA COUNTY

Deanna Lunsik truly felt abandoned the several long months she had been here at one of Contra Costa County's largest detention centers awaiting her trial, which was still four months away. Her parents had completely disavowed her following her arrest in connection with the events at the Sunvalley Mall. The only outside contact she had since her arrest was the court appointed public defender, who thankfully was a do gooder type who recently graduated law school and still a self –described "raging liberal". The only silver lining, the public defender had said, was that the government had a very weak case against her, that they couldn't prove anything beyond illegal possession of explosives. That, he told her, was why the bulk of the FBI investigation was still focused on the Sons of Anarchy MC, the ones who had initiated the attack and done the most damage.

In addition to her parents and extended family, her comrades in the Weather Underground had also broken off all contact with her, but that was to be expected. What happened in Concord had been a fiasco, and they couldn't afford to be linked to it. They only expected her to keep her mouth shut through the questioning and trial and not implicate them in the events that took place. After all, while the authorities had suspicions the Weathermen were involved, they lacked hard evidence. Deanna understood this, and that she, like Comrade Jimmy and the other Weathermen, were expendable. The cause was all that mattered. She knew that Professor Rogers and the other activists missed her but dared not make contact.

She knew that if she was in any of the communist nations she idolized, she would be mercilessly tortured and all her family and friends threatened with death. She smirked at the laws about human rights and "cruel and unusual punishment", how America's own laws were being used against it. Her best hope, in her mind, was to spend 5 years in prison, after which other organizations would probably start seeing her as a political prisoner unjustly held by an oppressive fascist government, like Martin Luther King, and start clamoring for her release.

So it was a complete shock to her when a group of guards came up to her cell and opened the door, some of them standing by to make sure her cellmate didn't try to make a run for it.

"What the fuck do want now?" she asked with an attitude and a glare to match it.

One of the guards grabbed her roughly. "Someone paid your bail."

"Who? My father?"

"Just shut up and follow us."

The guards had her moving before she could say goodbye to her roommate, though the other prisoners looked on with envy as she was led down the cellblock and into the warden's office where several San Joaquin County sheriff's deputies were waiting. They motioned her over to a table with an official document on it with stamps from the sheriff's department and the state judicial system. A door opened and Frisco stepped into the room.

"Who the hell's he?" Deanna asked.

The cop eyed her suspiciously. "I figured you'd know. Senor Francisco Martinez. He's the one who posted your bail, in cash." In an adjacent room, more officers were looking at the case of fake greenbacks that Frisco had dropped off.

Frisco exposed his upper arm, where the Mayans tattoo along with their slogan "El Asesinos de Dios" was clearly visible.

"Here are the terms of your bail," the cop said, "Your trial date remains March 23 of next year. Your passport has already been confiscated, of course, but the terms also stipulate that you not leave the state of California. Now sign here."

Deanna quickly signed the document and followed Frisco outside, where Oscar, Diego and several other Mayans were waiting.

"Did the Weathermen reach out to you?" she asked.

"No, we're reaching out to _them_ ," Frisco replied. "Get on the bike."

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY

Within 48 hours, Deanna had contacted Professor Rogers and the rest of the Weathermen on the UC-Berkeley campus and an emergency meeting was held. Deanna felt a sense of belonging as Oakland's endless ghettos suddenly gave way to the comfortable, ivory tower atmosphere of Berkeley. The transition was quite sudden upon leaving the city limits. Campus police glanced at the Mayans as the bikes entered the wide open gates but made no attempt to stop them. With left-wing political violence and outside protesters at an all-time high, a bunch of Mexicans in motorcycle jackets didn't seen that threatening in the grand scheme of things anymore. Plus if the police confronted them, there could be accusations of racial profiling resulting in further unrest from student activists.

Deanna couldn't believe she had been gone from the campus so long. She checked her watch and told Frisco to follow her up the steps into Barrows Hall, where Professor Rogers, Mike Grayson, and six other Weather Underground members were gathered. Mike placed a sheet of printer paper against the small slit in the door, making sure their meeting wasn't visible to the outside as Rogers double checked that the blinds were down. It was only then that he embraced Deanna warmly.

"Deanna, thank God! I'm so sorry we couldn't do anything to get you away from those pigs," Rogers said, referring of course to law enforcement.

"I understood that from the beginning."

Rogers nodded solemnly. "I've always known you were willing to make whatever sacrifices our struggle required. I see Frisco Martinez himself has decided to partner with us."

"Yes, he paid my bail."

"Hmmm, so you have that kind of money?" he said in Spanish, looking at Frisco.

"The court simply believes we do. By the time they find out, _if_ they find out at all, it will be too late," Frisco answered.

"You must have a proposal for us, I assume?" Rogers asked curiously.

Frisco told Deanna to explain and she did. "An operation that gets us all what we want. We combine forces and target Charming in our next operation. I'm familiar enough with that area for us to not do any additional surveillance."

"The major attack we've all been talking about, that'll finally serve as a wake up call for America," Mike commented with a eager look on his face.

"Yes," replied Deanna. "This will either also force the Sons of Anarchy into action when we attack their turf, or we attack the Sons first as a diversion so the rest of the attack can happen. Or we hit simultaneously and keep the police in disarray. We can flesh out the details later, pending your approval of course, Professor."

"You must already have something in mind," Rogers said.

Deanna took out a newspaper clipping from the San Francisco Chronicle indicating that after rigorous debate, the Charming city council had voted 3-2 to go ahead with the annual Veterans Day parade in spite of threats from several left-wing terrorist groups. It was going to be one of the largest such events in Northern California. Some of the councilmen who voted for it mentioned the need to prove that Charming could stand strong in spite of the increased criminal and political violence in the region. The mayor of Charming was even quoted as saying it was a message to the rest of the state that the people of Charming still believed in traditional American values and were willing to "stand up for what's right" by honoring the men and women who had served honorably in the military.

No, Deanna and Professor Rogers thought. It would be the perfect time and place for them to send their own message, that America was never going to be the same again. And it was going to be message washed in blood.


	22. Recommended Cast for Film Version

_Author's Note: I've decided to add a cast list for the film version of this story. Yes, more than halfway through but better late than never. Ive thought more and more of this especially since I also added a cast list to 24 Season Zero: Day of Reckoning._

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Brantley Gilbert - John "JT" Teller

John Cena - young Piney Winston

Ben Foster - young Clay Morrow

Jason Statham - young Keith McGee

Luis Dasilva - Chico Villenueva / "Benito Chavarria"

Diego Luna - Francisco "Frisco" Martinez

Channing Tatum - young Wayne Unser

Garrett Hedlund - Otto Moran

Andrew Garfield - Thomas Whitney

Kevin Sorbo - Professor Walt Rogers

Kathryn Prescott - Deanna Lunsik

Stephen Loftin - James Nelms aka Comrade Jimmy

Corey Hawkins - Otis Cross

Anna Diop - Tameesha Cross

Luis Guzman - Geraldo Morales

Carlos Bernard - Pablo Hinojosa

Dean Cain - Special Agent Mark Tasker

Morgan Freeman (Special Guest Star) - Reverend James Martin

Stuart Glass - Saul Alinsky

 _Author's Note: Stuart Glass played Saul Alinsky, and Stephen Loftin played college aged Saul Alinsky in the movie "Hillary's America: The Secret History of the Democratic Party" by Dinesh D'Souza. Kevin Sorbo plays an evil professor in the movie "God's Not Dead" and Dean Cain also appears in that movie as well. Kathryn Prescott plays the young female terrorist Amira Dudayev in 24: Legacy. Corey Hawkins plays the main character Eric Carter in 24:Legacy and Anna Diop plays his wife on that show. Luis Dasilva plays a gang leader in Triple 9. I thought of casting Oscar Isaac as Chico Villenueva but he is too old for that._


	23. Protect This House

CHAPTER 22: PROTECT THIS HOUSE

NOVEMBER 11, 1970 – VETERANS DAY

HIGHWAY 99, 6 MILES NORTH OF CHARMING

In the end, the glitch in the Mayans and Weathermen's plans didn't come from an unexpected police roadblock or a snitch somewhere turning federal witness. It came from an old farmer outside Charming who didn't maintain the barbed wire fence around his ranch well enough. The gusting winds that morning finally blew out an entire section of the fence, something that the herd of Angus beef cattle discovered before the farmer did. An eighteen-wheeler was just cruising south on its way to Charming for some supermarket deliveries when its driver suddenly saw a stream of over 20 cows rush onto the four-lane highway from the section of broken fence.

He slammed on his brakes as quickly as he could, but still slammed into three cows right in the roadway. The sudden braking along with the impact caused the truck to lose control, the 18-wheeler falling over onto its side and skidding across the median. Fortunately the driver wasn't seriously hurt, but the wrecked truck and cattle roadkill blocked all four lanes of traffic in both directions.

"What the hell?" Weather Underground terrorist Mike Grayson said as he saw the brake lights up ahead.

Deanna leaned forward in the back seat, getting in between Mike and Professor Rogers, who was in the back seat of their vehicle. A van packed with four more Weathermen from Bay Area colleges was right behind them and also slowed down along with the rest of the traffic.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Rogers said in an exasperated voice. The only time he ever used the Lord's name was in vain. He turned to Deanna and the two other Berkeley students in the back seat of the vehicle. "We're not moving at all. Where the fuck are we?"

One of the student terrorists took out a highway map and looked at the section showing San Joaquin County. "We're six miles south of Charming."

"I know that, goddammit," Rogers retorted. "Is there any way around this mess?"

Deanna checked the map frantically. "No, all these are private ranch access road that don't lead back to any of the major highways and some of them probably have mud holes too deep for our vehicles to drive through."

"So you're saying we have no choice but to wait till these yokel cops clean all this up? That's going to screw up our timetable!"

"I'm sure our Mayan friends still have the element of surprise," Mike said.

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR – SOA CLUBHOUSE

"Traffic is at a standstill on Highway 99 in San Joaquin County between Lodi and Charming following a single-vehicle accident involving an overturned tractor trailer and a number of livestock. According to the California Highway Patrol, Route 99 is blocked in both directions but police are attempting to clear out the shoulder so that vehicles can pass the wreck. It is unclear when traffic will begin moving again. Organizers of Charming's Veterans Day parade are considering postponing the start of the event…."

JT, Keith, Thomas and Chico were listening to the radio as JT got ready for his own appearance in the Charming Veterans Day parade. Clay and Piney were already at the staging area saving a spot for JT's bike, and Tameesha Cross had also been invited to join them in honor of her late husband Otis. The plan was for JT and the non-veterans in the club to do the final vehicle repair jobs with JT before the garage also closed for the main Veterans Day festival.

The past few weeks had been peaceful, though there was an unease in JT's mind.

Part of it was a lingering sense that Frisco wouldn't go away that easy. Even if the Mayan national leaders could be trusted with their intentions for peace, even they may not be able to reign in a hothead like Frisco who understood only the way of the streets. He was also increasingly concerned that many of the Sons' own members might not be willing to disband. That was a meeting that was supposed to occur after they paraded through the streets this day. There was still the issue of Professor Rogers. It was out of their own desire for revenge against the Weathermen that this whole business started, and while most of the Berkeley Weathermen, including Comrade Jimmy were dead and Deanna Lunsik was in jail awaiting trial, Professor Rogers himself was still free, shielded by his faculty position in an elite university.

The storm was even closer than JT had thought. He heard some frantic shouting from the prospects assigned to keep an eye on the street even as they did some auto repair work.

JT and Chico ran out into the cloudless November day and saw a prospect running across the repair shop large parking area. "What's going on?"

"We got a tow truck and a motorcycle bearing down on us."

Chico looked through the chain link fence and saw that it was a West German bike. There was only one biker gang in the area that chose imports over American motorcycles. "Shit, it's Frisco's people. Some of his men must have remained loyal to him."

"Everyone get in position, we're under attack!" JT shouted. "Lenny! Keith!"

"Aye, got it, mate!" Keith said in an Irish manner. "We got these bloody bastards!"

The tow truck slammed into the gate, shattering it but then coming to a stop by the cement barricade, which the Sons had placed as a defense during all hours the garage was closed, and it was already closed to customers on this day.

"Cover me!" Frisco screamed as four other Oakland Mayans who remained loyal to him poured out of the cab and the back of the truck. " _Vamos! Rapido! Rapido!"_

"Fuck!" JT yelled as he saw what had happened. He opened the desk drawer in his office and took out a Colt .45 pistol, shooting twice. He saw one of Frisco's bikers go down with a bullet hole through his heart.

Diego floored the accelerator on his Japanese bike and reached into the pocket of his leather kutte, taking out a machine pistol and spraying gunfire into the main area as he rode past the barricade, going straight for the main part of the garage. JT ducked out of the way as the bullets slammed through the glass and plastic windows of the garage's main mechanical area.

"Shit!" Chico said as broken glass fell all around him. "I'm going to get up on the roof and take out the tow truck! Clay, you draw some fire away from JT, can you do that?"

Clay nodded. "Yeah."

JT squeezed off several more shots but all of them went wide. The only good they did was slow down the Mayans just slightly, but it was clear these guys were determined. He saw Frisco himself leading his men as they entered the main part of the garage. JT took cover behind a car being repaired as Frisco opened fire with his AK-47. JT suddenly realized his clip was empty and the other ones were not in reach.

"Chico, I'm out!" JT shouted to his returned SOA brother.

"I got one magazine left! I'll cover you to the supply room!"

Chico fed another clip into his AR15 and opened fire, taking down one of Frisco's men as he tried to flank their position. He slid across the greasy ground, opening fire again and shooting another Mayan. Another team of four Mayans were entering the garage now, and they were forced to retreat. Keith and Thomas focused their fire on Diego who had reached the end of his garage on his motorcycle and was turning around, reaching into his kutte for grenade. Before Diego could throw the grenade into the main part of Teller Automotive Repair, however, one of Thomas's rounds hit him in the leg and he lost control of his bike, which crashed back out of the garage and exploded again a wall.

JT made his way into the supply area which contained several long shelves full of automotive parts and supplies including several racks full of tires. Chico kicked open the door to the parts area and sprayed the entire room with his Soviet assault rifle.

" _Tu vas a morir! Cajo en la leche de tu puta madre!"_ Frisco screamed as he opened fire again. He saw that not all of the bullets were penetrating the tires area while they bounced back from the metal boxes and supplies in the other parts of the room.

 _I'm going to find you, you fucking hillbilly coward,_ Frisco thought, almost delirious with rage. Everything in this war had led to this moment that should have come much earlier, with him and his loyal followers invading the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse itself. JT was now within reach, and only one of them was going to leave this garage alive.

Frisco made his way into the stack of tires, making sure his finger next left the trigger and listened for any hint of movement. Now he was in the middle of a hanging rack of extra large tires, the kind the local good ol' boys used to modify. Suddenly JT emerged from the middle of one of the tires, kicking Frisco on the chest. Frisco's AK fell to the ground and JT kicked it far beyond reach.

Frisco came with a back kick and struck JT in the stomach but JT didn't even flinch as he hit Frisco in the face with a boxing punch. Frisco was also quite his match, though. He ducked another punch from JT and then grabbed him, slamming him hard onto the ground with a Mexican wrestling move. Before JT could recover, Frisco punched his head into the ground again, almost giving him a concussion. He then grabbed a knife from his pocket and held it in front of JT's eyes.

 _"Para mi hermano!_ For my brother!" Frisco screamed in JT's face as he squeezed his neck with his left hand and he lifted his right hand high in the air, preparing to come down with the knife.

As the knife was a mere couple inches from JT's face, however, there were four deafening gunshots. JT felt Frisco's grip loosen then saw the red stains on Frisco's white shirt before he fell onto his side dead. JT chocked for breath as he started to get up, and saw Geraldo Morales approach with his gun drawn. Geraldo was accompanied by three Mayans in the kuttes of the national charter, and they slowly walked over. All of Frisco's men had been taken out too.

"My name is Marcus Alvarez," the man who appeared to be their leader said. "I'm the new President of the Mayans MC Oakland charter. I was sent here by Geraldo Morales to make sure things stayed under control."

JT picked up his handgun from the oily floor of the repair shop and pointed it at Geraldo, staring him down.

"There's no need for that!" Marcus said. "JT, I swear I knew nothing of this until this morning, and we came as quickly as we could."

"Why the hell should I believe you? Maybe you did put him up to it and you're just trying to save your own ass now. Or playing some other fucking game I don't know about."

"Frisco betrayed us! We only found out when he killed several of our business partners in Reno. Some of the Oakland guys finally got cold feet and told us the truth. They knew better than to go to war with us. And we saved your life, did we not?"

JT looked at the dead Oakland Mayans lying on the ground, and lowered his weapon. "So this is it?"

"It is for us, JT," said Marcus, "But not for you. Frisco was involved with an alliance with the Weather Underground, in his words, to destroy you and everything dear to you. We don't know the details, but we know they are planning an imminent major terrorist attack here in Charming. It was only the accident on Route 99 that disturbed their timetable. They were supposed to hit you and the target at the same time."

"And you're absolutely certain of this?" JT asked, his mind spinning.

"The business partners Frisco killed in Reno ran a counterfeiting outfit. Frisco stole the counterfeit cash and used it to bail a Weather Underground terrorist named Deanna Lunsik out of jail. Our outfit was very good. Even now the county may not realize the cash was all fake."

"Bloody fucking hell," Keith cursed. He remembered that Deanna was the terror cell's explosives expert.

"And we also found the man who helped bring these groups together. Apparently you have quite a few enemies for an upstart club in a little town." Geraldo motioned toward several of his men, and two of them went outside the garage. When they returned, they dragged a blindfolded, bloodied man. When Geraldo ripped off the blindfold, JT and the others realized that it was none other than Special Agent Mark Tasker.

"You son of a bitch!" Chico shouted, punching Tasker in the solar plexus, causing him to fall down in pain and short of breath.

"Why are you helping us?" JT asked the Mayan leader.

"The Weathermen say they want to bring the war home to America. You see, war is bad for business, and what's bad for business is bad for us," Geraldo said. "Unfortunately we can't do more to help you. As you might suspect, we are undocumented, so its better for us to stay in the shadows."

Marcus motioned at his men. " _Vamos_ , _vatos,_ let's get the hell out of here."

JT glared at Mark Tasker, but Thomas quickly walked over to the treasonous FBI agent and grabbed his Brooks Brothers tie, yanking it as hard as he could. "So you've been working with those wetback border jumpers, you fucking son of a bitch. You know about his plans with Megan?"

"Hold on, we need him alive!" JT shouted, then added, "For now."

Thomas chocked Tasker with his tie a little harder before letting go, Tasker gasping desperately for breath. No doubt the FBI Special Agent wanted to remove his tie, but his hands had been bound with rope by Marcus's new crew.

After a few moments, Tasker managed to speak. "Ah, so her name's Megan," Tasker said arrogantly with a forced chuckle. "I just thought your old lady's name was 'bitch'. That's what they all called her." Tasker paused. "But the only thing I know is that her pussy tasted pretty good. Too bad she was dead before I got the chance to see for myself."

Thomas and JT could both tell that he was actually quite scared, and sweating like a pig, but for some reason thought acting tough would be better. Or maybe he needed that arrogance to make himself feel in control of the situation.

Thomas grabbed a screwdriver from a table full of tools and grabbed Tasker by the tie again. "I'm going to jam this up your fucking ass…."

"Thomas!" JT shouted.

JT would see the rage in Thomas's eyes. Thomas also seethed at fate robbing him of the opportunity to avenge Megan's death by killing Frisco himself. Tasker would be the next best thing, as he had helped the Mayans and now apparently also helping the Weathermen, in addition to harassing him, Lenny and Wally since before he even joined the Bureau.

"We need to know what he's planned with those people," JT said, "It could make the Lodi attack look like child's play."

"Trust me, I'm going to make sure he tells us everything," Thomas said.

"I'm going to take the lead on this, Thomas," JT said. He didn't want Thomas to accidentally go too far too quickly. He couldn't afford to lose Tasker before he spilled the beans on his personal operation.

JT walked over and kicked Tasker in the stomach, cracking two of his ribs. "Looks like the Mayans' little leadership change hasn't worked out too well for you. Now this attack that's supposed to happen in Charming today, tell me about it."

"Like you got a way to make me, soldier boy," Tasker taunted JT. "You better let me go this instance, because I can't even begin to list the felonies you're already guilty of. I have enough friends in the justice system to ensure you get the death penalty."

"The same friends who ensured that the Lodi bombing was never properly investigated?" JT glared. "And if you don't think I'll force the information out of you, you're wrong, because somebody's gotta protect this town, my people, cause you and all your other government men in your fancy suits sure as hell won't."

Tasker spat right in JT's face. Inside, though, he was trembling, hoping that someone had watched Marcus's men kidnap him from the parking of his San Francisco condo building.

"I guess I don't have a real interrogation room, so we're going to have to make do with what we got." JT walked across the garage and started the engine on his Harley motorcycle, driving it over to where Tasker was.

"This….sensory torture, what it is?" Tasker said. His shirt was now soaked with sweat. If he thought some false bravado might convince JT he couldn't be broken, he was sorely mistaken.

JT then went to a shelf in the repair shop and brought out some automotive jumper cables, placing them right in front of Tasker's face so he could see the bright electric sparks.

"We're going to start easy," JT said. Thomas hoped Tasker won't break easy, so that more pain could be inflicted. No matter what, nothing they could do would even begin to compare with what Megan had gone through with Frisco's crew.

JT jammed the cables into Tasker's shoulder and motioned for Thomas to revve the bike engines. The current flowed immediately into the jumper cables, Tasker screaming in pain as the volts of electricity ran through his body. JT kept the cables on Tasker for six seconds before removing them.

"AHHHHHH! AHHHHH!" Tasker screamed.

"Nobody's out there to hear you, Tasker," JT said coldly.

"You sick, twisted bastard….I'll make sure you pay….."

"It's you whose sick, Tasker. You and your power trip, you needing to destroy us to satisfy something in yourself. You see, we're not doing this for fun, like Frisco's men love to do. This stops as soon as you tell us what we need to know."

"They….they're coming for me," Tasker said desperately in fear.

"I don't see anyone coming," JT said. He placed the jumper cables into the middle of Tasker's chest this time. "AAHHHHHHH! Fuck! Ahhhh!" Tasker was panting now, heart heartbeat racing.

"You think that was bad, Tasker? Do you?" JT said. "Let me tell you, some guys I know in the Army, the commie bastards did this to them for over a year, every day. And they never broke. The same soldiers whose deaths you spit upon. JT now held the cables in front of Tasker's groin area. "Now I don't think you have a pair of balls, but we can make sure of that." He moved the cables closer and prepared to shock Tasker's genitals.

"Okay! Stop! Stop! I'll tell you! You fucking crazy bastards! I'll tell you the truth!"

"Everything?" JT asked, leaning forward.

"Yes! Everything! I'll tell you everything I know!"

JT held the cable in place. "Well I'm waiting!"

"The…..the….the Weathermen are targeting the Veterans Day Parade! They're on the way here now from Berkeley! That was supposed to happen the same time Frisco attacked you here! They must have gotten delayed!"

"Must be that accident on Route 99," Thomas said to JT. "I don't know how much time it bought us."

"Call Unser right now!" JT told Thomas, "Looks like there's no serious injuries in the crash. Have Charming PD delay the emergency response and see if they can set up a roadblock and search vehicles coming into town."

Thomas nodded and ran into the office while JT continued questioning Tasker. "What is their plan?"

"It's supposed to be a double attack! There's supposed to be a gun and bomb attack on the main parade, specifically targeting the veterans! And then….."

"Then what?"

"They're planning another bombing and shooting spree at St. Thomas Hospital! To target the wounded and others in the hospital! They…they're going to focus their attack on the emergency room and the maternity ward for maximum psychological impact!"

"What else do you know?" JT demanded. "Is it a truck bomb? What kind of vehicles, how many terrorists are we talking about?"

"I don't know!"

JT asked Thomas, who was back from the office now, to rev the bike engine again, increasing the charge flowing through the starter cables.

"Please! I'm telling you everything I know! I just know whatever's left of the Berkeley Weathermen are there and they've managed to recruit some students from other colleges! I'm guessing no more than ten or fifteen of them! Walt Rogers will be personally leading the attack! I….I've told you everything!"

JT nodded. He still remembered what Rogers looked like, and the same was true for Deanna who he hoped would be there so he could identify the Weather Underground cell accompanying her. Yes, she will most definitely be there, as she was the one who was most familiar with the area due to her family's vacation property near Morada Hills State Park.

"See, the truth wasn't that hard now was it, Tasker?"

"Just let me go!"

"Thomas's girlfriend is dead because of you," JT said, "And you helped terrorists plan an attack that may kill hundreds of innocent people. There's a price to be paid for that."

"I'm a federal agent, Teller!"

"No, you're a traitor," JT said. "Thomas, he's all yours." Thomas walked over, pointing his Smith and Wesson 9mm pistol straight at Tasker.

"Look, I didn't know they were going to do that to your girl! I had nothing to do with…."

Thomas smirked as he saw that Tasker had wet his pants during the interrogation. He pulled the trigger twice, the bullets slamming into Tasker's chest, knocking him over. Tasker gasped in pain and shock for several seconds before succumbing to his wounds."

CHARMING POLICE DEPARTMENT

"I've done the best with the short notice," Wayne Unser said as JT, Piney, and Thomas entered the police station. There was a skeleton crew in the station as most of the small police force was out at the Veterans Day festivities or responding to the accident on Highway 99 with the overturned tractor trailer.

Unser spread several photos across his desk. "In addition to Professor Rogers and Deanna Lunsik we've identified this man through Oakland police records. Michael Grayson, student at Berkeley, arrested during a violent student protest a few months ago. A search of his on-campus apartment also turned up a number of illegal high-caliber weapons but he managed to just get a slap on the wrist. He dad's a wealthy lawyer up in Marin County."

"Figures," Piney said darkly.

JT breathed out. "We must assume he knows how to use all of those firearms and that he's trained others in his radical cell." These were the same Soviet, East German, and Czechoslovakian manufactured military rifles and explosives the North Vietnamese carried on the battlefield.

"What's the situation on 99?" asked Piney.

"We're using this as an excuse, saying we've received word of a credible threat against the Veterans Day celebration downtown and we're posting officers everywhere. And the truth is we don't know what's going on or if they've infiltrated already. Officer Tincher is actually searching the fireworks trailers as we speak to see if there's been any unauthorized activity. I've also contacted the county sheriffs and the state police to beef up security at St. Thomas Hospital."

"Should we cancel the parade?" JT asked. He felt strange even asking that question. In this brave, alien new world, many places across the nation didn't even honor their veterans anymore, and he was proud to be from a town that did. But now, with so many lives on the line, including the very veterans being honored, maybe it was better to be safe than sorry.

"I can contact the organizers but they'll most likely disagree that the threat is specific enough. We've been getting death threats for months after all."

"Okay," JT said, "You do whatever you can. We're going to get into position and be on a lookout. I'll find a way to call you in the next twenty minutes."

As JT and the Sons left, an idea suddenly popped into Unser's head, and he dialed the number for Detective Raymond Gao in San Francisco, the same man who had helped them plan the initial hit on the Weathermen.

"Wayne, what a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you, buddy?"

"Look, this is urgent, involving a Weathermen threat against the Charming Veterans Day parade which is scheduled to begin in less than forty five minutes. We're talking a mass casualty assault, hundreds of people dead."

"Holy shit," Gao said. "What can I do for you?"

"See if you can work your contacts at the Marin County DMV. I need to know which vehicles are registered to a certain Matthew Grayson, last known address 34500 Prince Royal Drive in Mill Valley. Also a Professor Walt Rogers in at UC Berkeley…."

 _Author's Note: I know Marcus Alvarez only appears in a few scenes in this prequel but he was a cool character on the real show Hope y'all enjoyed the interrogation scene. i tried to make it an authentic SOA type interrogation vs a "24" type. The next few stories will fully explain the Sons' legendary status in Charming._


	24. Under the Weather

CHAPTER 25: UNDER THE WEATHER

DOWNTOWN CHARMING

JT raced his Harley motorcycle around the increasingly heavy traffic building up around downtown Charming as spectators began arriving early for the Veterans Day parade and celebration. He quickly squealed to a stop right by the entrance to the town square, which was now covered with carnival rides and games including a large ferris wheel and vendors with food trucks selling cotton candy and hot dogs. This family friendly fun was supposed to complement the parade, but seemed to draw as many people. Some groups of anti-military protesters had arrived, but they were separated by barricades manned by officers from several different police departments including the state police. This being Charming, though, they were heavily outnumbered by those who were here to partake in the festivities and to support the soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines who had served America.

"What's going on, JT?" Clay asked as he made around the long lines at one of the lemonade stands.

"Frisco and his remaining men attacked the clubhouse. Geraldo Morales and Marcus Alvarez arrived at the last minute and saved our ass, and their own. They also captured Special Agent Tasker and brought him to us."

"Where's he at?"

"At the clubhouse, dead, along with Frisco…."

"Jesus Christ, Tasker was a fucking bastard but killing a Federal agent, man…."

"You gotta listen to me, we interrogated him and he's been working with Frisco the entire time. Frisco is teaming up with the Weathermen again and Professor Rogers's cell is planning an attack today on this event!"

"What?" Piney asked.

"Yes, so y'all need to listen carefully. They're planning a massive explosion, we're guessing another car bomb, at the parade itself in order to inflict max casualties. Then they have a secondary team planning another attack at St. Thomas Hospital to finish off the wounded."

"Motherfucking sons of bitches," Clay exclaimed. "Attacking a goddamn hospital!"

"Do we have any idea who we're looking for by now?" Keith asked.

"Unser has been able to work his contacts at the Marin County DMV and the Berkeley campus police. We're looking for a gray BMW 2002 Turbo with license plate RTY457, registered to a Berkeley student who's a member of the Weathermen cell, and a light blue Pontiac Bonneville registered to Rogers himself, license plate JKW941."

"Okay, I think we need to step up our patrols immediately if they're not willing to shut down this event due to this threat," Piney said.

"Maybe it's best that we deal with this now," Clay said, "We cancel this event we'll never flush them out. These bastards have already made clear their intentions against this town. One day they'll come at us when we least expect us. We need to finish this bullshit once and for all."

"Aye, brother," said Keith. "We're taking on those bloody bastards right now."

FBI FIELD OFFICE, SAN FRANCISCO

Agent Bradley Smalls entered the room just as field office head Nathan Jarrett was putting down his cup of coffee onto his large, expansive oak desk.

"Any news, Agent Smalls?"

"Still no word from Tasker and he hasn't reported to the security command post in Charming for the parade yet."

"Well he certainly isn't a fan of the veterans, trying to delay his arrival as much as he can, I reckon. Weird for such a career obsessed guy though," commented Jarrett.

"I had some agents check his apartment. It's empty and his car's still in the garage but he hasn't been seen anywhere on the premises all morning," Smalls informed him.

"Yeah, that's strange. Really doesn't sound like Tasker."

"There _is_ something, though," Smalls said. "Just a hunch, but…."

"You're an FBI agent, not some local county sheriff's deputy, you hunch matters."

"I suspect Tasker's source, or contacts in this investigation, if you will, are the Mayans."

Jarrett looked up with an incredulous look on his face."What makes you say that?"

"A disproportionate number of his meets have been with Mexicans or have taken place in Mexican neighborhoods, and among the Mexican community only the Mayans would have a lot of info regarding the Sons of Anarchy. After all they're rivals and have a vested interest in helping us bring down the Sons. The local police at the command post did mention a large group of what may be Mayan bikers entering Charming, some of them in the vicinity of Teller Automotive Repair."

"Teller, as in John Teller?" he said in shock.

"Yes, sir. The repair shop's owned by JT's father Clyde Teller and we believe it's the location of the Sons of Anarchy clubhouse."

"I want a chopper ready on the helipad in five minutes. We're going to bring some guys over there and check it out."

"Right away, sir, and I'll contact the San Joaquin County courthouse to get a judge to sign off on a warrant."

"No time for that. We'll enter the grounds on the premises that we need it for a security overlook position due to a credible threat to the Charming parade."

"Yes, sir. I'll have the chopper ready immediately."

CHARMING TOWN SQUARE

"Just got off the radio dispatch with the state police," Unser said to the Sons assembled at the town square carnival.

"Okay, here's the weak spots I've identified along the parade route based on the police security plans," JT said, pointing to a large fold-out map of Charming. "We've got the underpass by the railroad bridge on 7th Avenue where we got these blind spots that they can access from multiple directions. We've got the area by the CHS football field which they can easily access via the school parking lot. We know their timing's fortunately been thrown off by the tractor trailer wreck but there's too many unknowns here. That's just the parade route but they can enter Charming from so many different routes."

"I got an idea," Chico spoke up.

"What you got for us?" JT asked.

"If Agent Tasker helped the Weathermen, then Rogers's people know not just the security preparations but the specific route of the parade."

"That's been published well in advance…." Clay began

"Not just the route. The order the various groups will be marching within the parade. The specific lineup, that's what we're talking about. The Berkeley cell is about a lot of stuff, but above all their hate is directed toward the military. Think about it, the veterans are what this entire day's about. And we've always been their primary targets."

JT slapped Chico on the back. "Good thinking, man. That's the assumption we're going to be operating on. In that case, without Tasker there, they will probably send another terrorist in a different vehicle to scout the location.

"The team targeting the hospital will most likely be taking another route and be in communication with the others," Keith said, "We assume they have military-style radios so they won't be relying on pay phones. If we head out now, though, we might find all of our targets still close to each other due to the traffic jam."

Keith looked at the map again. He knew much about urban terrorism from his days in Belfast and thought about what he would do if he was a terrorist targeting Charming. "If I was them, I would approach the hospital via Oakwood Road right here on the West End. If Charming PD can set up a police presence there it would delay their approach to the hospital. The high school also provides easy access to downtown if the other team cuts across there to target the parade. That's in addition to the other possible attack points you've mentioned, JT."

AIRBORNE OVER THE EAST BAY

"Dammit, watch the turbulence!" Special Agent in Charge Jarrett admonished the pilot of the FBI helicopter as a gust over San Francisco Bay tossed the bird around a bit. The aircraft leveled off now that they were back over land, flying over the grim industrial East Bay suburb of Hayward. He was already in a foul mood. He hated having to clean up Tasker's mess. For Jarrett, it was only about protecting his own well-paid career. That, and making sure the local authorities respected Washington's will.

"Charming PD's blowing up my radio! Chief Hancock wants to talk to you."

"What does that son of a bitch want now?" Jarrett cursed. "Put him through."

"This is Special Agent in Charge Jarrett," he said, his voice dripping with condescension as he stressed his official title. With him, it was always clear what the pecking order was. "I assume you have something for me finally regarding the whereabouts of Agent Tasker as I've ordered you?"

"We are still looking into that, sir, but I'm calling in regards to the threats against the parade. They're more credible than…."

"Well?" Jarrett interrupted him.

"We've identified specific suspects planning a large-scale terrorist attack. A professor at UC Berkeley named Walt Rogers and one of his students, Mike Grayson who is a member of the Weather Underground cell there. We have the vehicles registered to them and we believe they're heading to Charming as we speak."

"Oh and how did you come across such detailed information?" asked Jarrett.

"I….I can't reveal my sources now but they're reliable. I swear to God."

"You can't reveal your sources? They don't happen to be members of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club, would they now?"

"Sir, with respect, you have to trust us on this. Charming's our town and we know…."

"You don't got shit if you can't tell me your specific source and how they obtained this alleged information. Now instead of going on your own little paranoid investigation there, why don't you do as I ordered and start questioning people about Tasker? I expect some answers when I land." He disconnected the radio before Hancock could respond.

DOWNTOWN CHARMING

JT was in full command mode now as it was clear federal law enforcement was definitely not on there side.

"I can't believe this, JT," Unser said.

"But you and your men, including Chief Hancock trust us on this."

Unser sighed. "Yeah, it's a deal with the devil, but we're out of other options. Washington certainly ain't gonna help."

"Okay I need you to get us access to the water tower to Keith can get up there with the binoculars and sniper rifle and survey the entire town. He should be able to see some of the main approaches. If you can spare some men that would be great too, and see if the county sheriffs can spare some extra sharpshooters on the rooftops overlooking the carnival and the parade route."

"You got it, JT. I'll go make the call now," Unser said, then excused himself so he could go back to his patrol car and use his police radio to call for access to the water company's property. Keith set out with Officer Tincher, speeding away toward the water tower, the tallest structure in Charming at 190 feet.

"Piney, Clay, you come with me. We're going to head for Route 99 see if they're coming in that way. The rest of you will go with Chico and head toward Main Street. From the map it looks like 4th Avenue may be a possibly weak spot too. Alright, let's move!"

CHARMING WATER TOWER

Thankfully the water company already had the gate around the tower, erected to prevent drunk high school kids from climbing the ladder on weekend nights, open when Keith and Tincher pulled up.

"I guess I shouldn't ask you where the hell you got all those weapons," Tincher said. There were rumors some were purchased from a local anti-government militia but none of it was confirmed.

"You're right, you shouldn't ask," Keith said in his thick Irish accent. He quickly climbed up the metal ladder heading to the top, emerging onto a walkway with a commanding 360 degree view of all of Charming. He immediately focused his binoculars on the approach on Route 99 from the west and zoomed in, seeing that traffic was already moving again following the tractor trailer accident. Sure enough, he saw the BMW 2002 Turbo and the Pontiac Bonneville approaching. While he couldn't make out the license plates, there was no way this was a coincidence. Good, they had the element of surprise as the Weathermen obviously had no idea anyone was on to them.

Keith took out his radio. "I have a visual on the attackers."

CHARMING WEST END

JT, Piney, and Clay sped down the nearly deserted Sycamore Avenue which led through a leafy residential neighborhood then out toward some food processing facilities where Charming met the surrounding farm country. "Okay, I've got an eye on those bastards," Clay said, pointing at the slow moving traffic.

"Okay, take them out now."

Unfortunately the cornfield they were in now provided no cover and their trail of dust attracted the attention of their targets.

"Look, what the…." Mike said from the vehicle.

"That's a bike alright, looks like the Sons are here," another Weatherman said. "How the hell did this happen?"

"Frisco's people must have screwed up their parts and now they're onto us," Rogers said. "Well that goddamn explains why they're not responding to our calls! We need to split up right now." Rogers motioned out the window and the other Weathermen vehicle pulled over to the shoulder, the sudden braking causing some traffic to honk at them.

"Mike, you stay with me. You still have a clear path to the parade. Deanna and the rest will head toward St. Thomas Hospital."

"Shit, but the timing will be even more fucked than it is already! The hospital's supposed to be attacked _after_ the casualties from the parade start going in!" Deanna pointed out.

"We need to do what we can, Deanna, you got that? Now go! Do what Comrade Jimmy would have done. Alinsky's counting on it."

"Yes, sir, Professor!"

Mike immediately turned his luxury car, paid for by his parents' trust fund, back across the highway and crossed the median, causing several vehicles to swerve into the ditch to avoid him, then started cutting across the cornfield. Deanna, accompanied by three Weather Underground terrorists, look control of Professor Rogers's vehicle and crashed through a chain link fence, going onto an access road parallel to the highway.

"Shit! They're splitting up! I'm going to follow Rogers's vehicle!" JT shouted into the radio. "Clay, Piney come on! Everyone else take out the BMW! And watch your aim, either or both vehicles will be carrying explosives!"

Deanna made a sharp right onto a dirt path that cut across the giant cornfield as she saw the motorcycles approaching her. The Weathermen in the backseat rolled down the rear passenger windows and began opening fire with their AK-47s, dozens of muzzle flashes emerging from the vehicle. JT, Piney, and Clay headed straight into the stalks of corn, following a narrow path.

"Fuck, we're losing time!" Piney said. By now, the Pontiac Deanna was driving had made it down the driveway of the farmhouse and was now on County Road 622 which eventually led to the larger thoroughfare of McKeldin Street as it entered the city limits and turned into 9th Avenue at the railroad underpass.

DOWNTOWN CHARMING STREETS

Chico immediately saw the BMW make a sudden turn onto an industrial road and revved his engines, getting the other Sons to follow him. Ignoring the stares of onlookers, Chico jumped the curb and led Lenny and Thomas on a shortcut right through a motel property, shocking several people as they sped through the parking lot then along the narrow walkways separating the motel rooms. They ended up in the central courtyard where the motel's pool was located. Several guests jumped into the pool in order to get out of the bike's path in time. They then sped past the front office and onto Cedar Grove Avenue, one of Charming's newer major roads which was lined by a median planted with trees and flowers.

"Try to drive them into my line of fire!" Keith radioed Chico.

"Got it!" Chico replied.

By now the terrorists were also engaging Chico's team as they were now only two blocks behind. The motel shortcut certainly helped. Several rounds from an East German Wieger StG-940 assault rifle struck Lenny's handlebars but he maintained control of the bike.

"Speed up! Dammit!" Rogers shouted to the driver. "Make a right in four more blocks, that should take you onto Wahewa Landing Way! Mike, continue to engage, we have to lose them!"

Mike lobbed a grenade out the back window, and Thomas saw the object rolling along the street. The Sons went onto the opposite sidewalks, closing their eyes as the fragmentation grenade exploded in the middle of the street. They felt the heat wave coming over them but thankfully was far enough that the shrapnel from damaged cars and storefront windows didn't strike them.

A gust of wind blew the next grenade across the median where it landed on the street just as an Oldsmobile 88 was driving past that location. The grenade explosion flipped the Oldsmobile onto its back and ignited a fiery second explosion that killed its driver and passenger and sent part of a billboard raining down on the street and forcing pedestrians to scramble for cover.

"Son of a bitch!" Thomas said as he was pelted by pieces of the billboard. Thankfully he had his helmet even though state law didn't require it yet.

"Lenny you try to flank them!" Chico shouted.

Two terrorists opened fire as the Sons continued to give chase, the bullets striking trees, mailboxes and parked vehicles as Chico continued to ride down the sidewalk. Mike tossed two more grenades out the back. Chico and Thomas had to swerve very quickly and the grenade rolled past, exploding behind them.

Yet another grenade was thrown. "Jesus fucking Christ, these people!" Chico shouted to himself. Chico rode his bike onto the roofs of a line of parked cars, the grenade exploding far to his left and demolishing several park benches and sending tools from a hardware store flying out onto the street.

"Fuck, they're still coming! Those goddamn bastards!" Rogers said in a panicky voice. "Get one of the Claymores! We have to lose them! Remember your training!" They were now taking the shortcut through the high school, driving along the track inside the stadium.

One of the terrorists tossed a Claymore mine out the window then Mike blasted it with his Wieger rifle. An enormous explosion appeared in the middle of the field. The force of the blast carried Lenny off his bike, slamming him hard into the ground. Thankfully it was the middle of the football field rather than blacktop.

"My fucking leg's broken!" Lenny shouted in pain, "Y'all go on and get them!"

FBI HELICOPTER, AIRBORNE OVER THE CENTRAL VALLEY

"Are you sure?" Smalls asked in a concerned voice then handed the radio over to Jarrett. "You need to take this. Guess those trailer trash bikers were onto something after all."

"Sir!" Chief Hancock shouted into the phone, "We've had reports of gunfire and explosions all over town. We need backup now!"

"We're on our way. ETA fifteen minutes. And I'll send the alert out to our people on the ground in Charming coordinating the security preparations."

"We need to divert some of the resources to St. Thomas Hospital. Look, the Sons have been right so far. We have to assume the terrorists also intend to attack to hospital!"

"I need to get to you on that." He disconnected the radio.

"Well I'll be damned, they're right about something." He turned to Agent Smalls. "What's your take on this?" Smalls knew what Jarrett was doing. He usually didn't asked for his subordinate's opinion, but in a situation like this he wanted some feedback so that if something went wrong, Smalls would be blamed for it.

"I doubt the Sons intel is that perfect," Smalls finally said. "Now imagine if we divert resources to the hospital and there's no attack there and we have more casualties at the parade, we won't be able to explain ourselves if we screwed up because we trusted intel from a fucking biker gang!"

Jarrett nodded. "I agree. We should have our people respond to events as they occur."

CHARMING PARADE ROUTE

The Charming Veterans Day parade began right on time, being led by the Homecoming King and Queen from Charming High School riding in a convertible with the U.S. and California flags flying from the back, then the cheerleaders and the high school marching band carrying a banner with the Charming town seal and a message thanking the men and women who have served in the U.S. military. Following behind them was the local boy scout troop and members of the local Moose Lodge and Eagles Club which had done much to support the veterans. Further back were the veterans themselves, separated by their branch of service.

Despite the heavy police presence, the mood was festive. Families dressed in patriotic attire waved American flags and cheered on the vets, often shouting "USA! USA!" as the marching band played The Stars and Stripes Forever and the Marine Corps Hymn. Unser forced himself to keep a calm face despite the threats so that nobody would panic. He spoke in his radio again to Officer Gao from San Francisco.

"You're sure you've gone through all the pictures?" Gao asked.

"Yes! I don't see any of them here! Could there be anything else?"

"My men raided two known Weather Underground hideouts here in the city today and questioned some members. They swore they didn't know of any plan to send people to Charming early. They told me Deanna is the only person truly familiar with the town."

"Ray, are you really suggesting..."

"I think the Weathermen have someone inside Charming feeding them information about how the parade's progressing. That's the only way Rogers can launch a pinpoint attack to kill as many vets as possible."

Then as Unser watched the staging ground for the parade, he noticed that something was off about a particular young college-aged black man in a Navy uniform who had just arrived for the parade. His dress blues were too long, and overlapped with his shoes, causing the bottom part of the dress pants to be muddy. A real Navy sailor would never allow this to happen, and there was something about this person's demeanor and gait that was more like a college student and less like a Navy man. It was more and more clear to Unser that the uniform probably didn't belong to this guy. Yet Unser had to be sure if he was going to make a scene.

"Hey, I recognize that pin," Wayne said, pointing to one of the pins on his uniform. " _USS Midway?"_

"Yes, sir, indeed," the man replied. So far nothing had seemed out of the ordinary, but Unser trusted his instincts.

"You know, my brother served on that ship. He was a pilot, personally downed three of those commie bastards during a sortie over the North."

"What was his name?"

"James Unser."

"Ah yes, didn't know him personally, but he was a big deal. Everyone on board talked about how badass he was in that cockpit."

"He told me the way back was quite the good time. Especially that week in Hawaii. Too bad I had to miss out on that. Failed the physicals, you know?"

"Definitely, man. Can't beat Honolulu, you got pussy everywhere, girls them much better looking than Saigon."

Unser grabbed him by the collar and hurled him out of the crowd into an alleyway. "Charming PD, I got this," he said to the surrounding people whose attention he had drawn.

"What the fuck, man? You crazy?"

Upon grabbing the man's collar, Unser knew he had the right guy, since he saw the tattoo of Elijah Muhammad on the young man's shoulder. Elijah Muhammad was the founder of the Nation of Islam, a violent group of Black Muslims opposed to Martin Luther King's peaceful movement. They were known for working with the Weathermen.

"What the fuck is your problem?" the Black Muslim asked again.

"You tell me!" Wayne said. "The Midway never stopped in Hawaii. Sailed straight between Alameda and the Gulf of Tonkin." Unser first grabbed the man's wallet and sure enough, it contained a student ID from UC Berkeley identifying him as Tavon Gravely. Unser recognized that name and remembered that his brother Steve Gravely was indeed in the Navy, as was their father. A decent God fearing Christian family. Tavon must be the black sheep of the family. Unser looked again at the tattoo. "Nation of Islam? You working with the Weathermen aren't you, you son of a bitch? You're their contact in the parade. Now where did you get this uniform."

"From my brother. He's dead, just like you're about to be, cracker."

Tavon charged at Unser with a military-issue hunting knife. One of his attempts managed to cut through Unser's shirt near his shoulder but didn't penetrate his skin. Unser blocked the next blow and drew his service weapon. As Tavon came at him again, Unser sent him flying through a window with three quick shots to the chest.

The sound of the gunshots and the violent scene quickly caused the parade to grind to a halt and the spectators to scream in panic. "Stay calm! The situation is under control! We're under control!" Unser shouted as several other Charming PD officers rushed over, but to no avail.

Spectators and parade participants quickly began to stampede from the scene in panic, the cheerleaders and marching band members dropping their pom poms and instruments in the middle of the street as they screamed and started running. Well at least the parade was off now.

CHARMING STREETS

"Tavon! Come in! Repeat!" Mike shouted into his radio as the BMW drove through the Charming High School parking lot, running over a street sign. While one of the Sons was out of the chase, Mike and Rogers could see two more bikes still chasing him, albeit from a longer distance away now.

"Try a different frequency!" Rogers said.

Mike did as he was told. "Tavon, we need an update on the parade. Respond!" He shook his head. "Tavon's not responding anymore."

"Fuck!" Rogers cursed again. This day was quickly going to hell and he had no idea why. "I don't know how, but they must have gotten to Tavon."

"What do we do now?" Mike asked.

"We press on with the attack, do what we can."

One of the student radicals looked at Rogers. "Look, professor, this isn't what was supposed to happen!" There was fear in his voice. "We were supposed to park this car and destroy the parade from a distance."

"You're supposed to carry out this operation the way I tell you to," Rogers snapped.

"Look, we should throw these guys off our tails and head back to Berkeley."

Rogers turned back around with a Makarov pistol and splattered the student's brains all over the insides of the car. "You don't want to carry on, it's your choice."


	25. Fallout

_Author's Note- This is the thrilling conclusion to this story. There will be a shorter epilogue following this chapter that ties up more of the loose ends and explains more about the early history of SAMCRO. I hope that y'all find this to be a satisfying climax and why the people of Charming feel indebted to the Sons of Anarchy even a generation later. While the show heads in a much darker direction that will be addressed in the epilogue, I wanted as close to a feel good ending as I can right here. SOA is like my other fandom "24" where the show itself isn't always very happy, but I work with that the original writers give me._

 _I've never been to an actual 1950s nuclear fallout shelter before but just know that these exist in some buildings constructed during the Cold War era. Now that works has been fictionalized for the purposes of this story._

CHAPTER 26: FALLOUT

CHARMING WATER TOWER/DOWNTOWN STREETS

Keith handed his binoculars to officer Tincher and took his sniper rifle instead. "Look for the other vehicle, they've split up," he told Tincher. The cop nodded, feeling weird to be following the instructions of an outlaw biker.

Keith preferably would have used the rocket launcher, which required a less premise aim since it demolished everything in its blast radius, but he had no idea how big the Weathermen's bomb was and didn't want to trigger it, especially as the crowds had dispersed from the parade route and carnival and were making their way throughout the town center streets.

He carefully took aim and zoomed in, firing his first shot. Due to the wind, it was off, hitting the engine block instead. Some smoke began rising from the radiator but the BMW was still barreling forward. Keith took aim again, and this time, his sniper bullet went straight into the BMW driver's brain. The dead terrorist's foot slammed on the accelerator while his hands left the steering wheel and the vehicle went out of control.

Rogers tried to grab the wheel but the driver's body was in the way. The BMW jumped the curb and went some parking meters, flower pots and a postal box flying into the air. It then side swiped a tree and the right wheels became airborne, the BMW on his side as it slammed into an antiques store.

"Target down!" Keith radioed, "The vehicle just crashed into Carol Ann's Antiques!"

"Do you have a visual on Rogers or any of his men?"

"Got one guy coming in my direction, taking him out now!"

One of the Weathermen, bloodied from the wreck was crawling out onto the sidewalk in front of Carol Ann's. Keith got him in his crosshairs and in a split second later his head exploded like a ripe melon. Rogers heard the crack of the sniper rifle and saw the blood from the dead Weatherman splatter into the store.

"We need to head out the back!" Rogers said to Mike and he nodded. "Check on the bomb, make sure we can still detonate it remotely!"

"Yes, Professor," Mike answered as he went into the BMW's trunk and checked the explosive wiring on the powerful homemade bomb they had built at his father's isolated seaside estate. "The bomb's still intact."

"Good. We're already in the town center. Looks like I won't be returning to campus. I'm going to take the bomb into a crowded area and detonate it there. I need you to cover me and then get out of here. Can you do that?"

"Yes. I believe in this, you can count on me."

DOWNTOWN STREETS

However, Rogers and Mike saw the approaching motorcycles as Chico and Thomas pulled up, expressions of rage and determination on their hardened faces.

"Hold them off, looks like we're going to blow the bomb here. It should still destroy everything in a four block radius."

"I can throw the bomb from an elevated position! Main Street's on the other side of this building!" Rogers said.

"That's Mike Grayson and Professor Rogers," Chico said, remembering the photos they had seen. "Roger's got the bomb so watch your fire!"

Clay hurled a grenade in Mike's direction and Keith squeezed off several shots with his sniper rifles but Mike dove through a window, shattering it and going into a shoe store, rolling along the ground and out of the line of fire even as the heavy caliber firepower decimated the plastic pricing signs and cardboard shoeboxes in the store.

"Mike! Get up there on the roof now and finish them!" Rogers screamed into his military-style radio as he went out into the dumpster area and parking lot behind the shoe store. Rogers went up a fire escape, carrying the heavy bomb which was in a sports bag. Despite being over 50 years old, he was still fit due to his daily workouts in the campus gym. He saw Chico and Thomas coming and fired off several shots that bounced off the dumpster, forcing the bikers to take cover.

Thomas reloaded and opened fire, several of his bullets clanging off the fire escape. On of them hit Rogers in the foot and the professor yelled out in pain, but he was already on the roof with the bomb and scampered away. It was clear now that Rogers was making his way across the long rooftop of the commercial block. Mike was nowhere to be seen at this time but they knew they had to pursue Rogers before he could blow the bomb.

Not long after making it to the roof, Chico felt a sharp pain in his lower back and saw that he had been shot, the bullet coming right out through his abdomen. As he fell onto the roof he turned and saw a muzzle flash and Mike walking toward him with an AK-47. The Weatherman was well armed with an ammo belt on him. Mike opened fire again but Chico rolled along the roof, the bullets sending tiles flying in all directions. Then, however, Thomas also reached the roof and fired a shot into Mike's chest. The Weatherman looked at Chico in shock, then Chico sent his own bullet into Mike's torso, dropping him.

"It's over, Rogers!"

"No, it's not," he said, then held up the bomb. "Timer's already been set and I'm the only one who can deactivate it. Look at those people down there. They don't even know I'm here. They'll never evacuate in time."

Rogers then raised his pistol with one hand and picked up the sports bag with the other. Thomas fired two shots that separated Roger's right hand from his body and the sports bag fell to the roof. He and Chico then both shot Rogers several times in the chest and the professor went over the roof.

The two Sons rushed over and saw that there was two minutes left on the timer."

"We need to get it to the football field and get Lenny out of there! Go! Go!" Chico shouted.

They carried the bomb down to their bikes. As the countdown continued mentally through his head, he raced back down the streets into the Charming High School football field, where the injured Lenny was still on the grass. Chico grabbed Lenny and got him onto his bike, then they all raced toward the school. Thomas dropped the bag underneath the bleachers which hopefully would absorb part of the blast. Then as the countdown continued, they both rode their bikes into the school hallways until they reached a stairwell reaching down into the basement storage area.

"C'mon! Hurry! It's going to blow at any time!" Chico shouted.

Thomas rushed down the stairwell and they all took cover. Several seconds later, the bomb detonated, completely obliterating the bleachers and sending them sailing hundreds of feet through the air. The fireball shattered every window in the school and the shock wave overturned several cars in the parking lot. Entire trees were uprooted by the force. Thomas, Lenny and Chico were blown toward the door by the suction wave caused by the explosion but landed harmlessly on the floor.

ST. THOMAS HOSPITAL, MATERNITY WARD

Deanna had managed to make her way past the police roadblock, the other Weathermen gunning down two officers in the process. She pulled Professor Rogers's Bonneville up under overhang by the main entrance of St. Thomas hospital and got out.

"Ma'am, valet parking is over in the other lane," a uniformed hospital employee said, walking over to her.

Deanna pulled out a machine pistol and shot him dead on the spot, creating a sudden panic. She and the two other Weathermen than killed two more civilians as they entered the main lobby, one of them looking amusingly at a sign that indicated the hospital was a "gun free zone" and all firearms were banned from its premises. "At least it doesn't say bomb free," one of them joked darkly.

They saw a doctor in a lab coat running toward a side door and shot him in the back, then one of the Weathermen grabbed the young woman working the reception desk.

"Where's the maternity ward?"

The girl's teeth clattered as she struggled to speak. "You….you'll kill me anyway."

"Fucking bitch," the Weatherman cursed and forced his pistol into her mouth, the round exiting through her brain.

"This way!" Deanna said, glancing at one of the overhead signs and grabbing a map of the hospital. "We're not far." Since Professor Rogers was dead and there would be no mass casualties being brought in from the parade, it was the maternity ward that they would strike.

CHARMING STREETS

"We got 911 calls originating in St. Thomas Hospital!" Unser radioed JT.

"Jesus Christ! We're five minutes out!"

"Also have reports of officers down at our checkpoint on 8th Street. Hurry up! Our men are all bogged down trying to clear this chaos here and evacuate the parade route in case Rogers and Grayson left any more bombs on the way!"

"We're on our way now!" JT shouted into the radio. "Any news about the explosion at the high school?"

"There are reports of injuries from broken glass in the surrounding neighborhood but no reports of fatalities! We still have no contact from Chico or the rest."

"Dammit, please tell me they had a way of making it!"

"They headed into the school which sustained heavy damage. If they made it to the basement they should be fine. Look I'll give you an update as soon as we know something but we also got the FBI on the way. I'm directing them to the hospital but you need to stop Deanna before she can trigger the second bomb!"

MATERNITY WARD, ST. THOMAS HOSPITAL

Deanna followed behind the two other Weathermen, a male and female as they shoved open a door leading into a well-lit skybridge leading into the older part of the hospital, where the maternity ward was housed. Two patients saw the armed Berkeley students approaching them and gasped. The Weathermen killed them with automatic gunfire in an almost robotic motion.

Next up was the nurses station where three nurses were currently checking the computer monitors and patient charts of the new mothers and their babies.

"What are you doing?" one of the nurses almost shrieked as she saw the armed terrorists enter with their AK-47s and Czechoslovakian machine pistols pointed forward. Deanna also had a backpack containing the bomb even as she held weapons in both hands.

"The same thing this country's doing in other countries!" the male Weatherman shouted. Then all three of them opened fire at the nurses station for over ten seconds. The first nurse was dead within seconds and the others desperately tried to fight back with anything they had, including staplers and chairs but were no match for the cold, merciless Soviet weapons and the Berkeley students who carried them.

Another nurse who was conducting her rounds threw a food tray at the approaching Weathermen, who stepped aside, then the nurse came at them with a pair of scissors, the only weapon she had on them. She knew she had to do what she could to delay these attackers before they could slaughter the innocent newborn children whose rooms lined this very hallway.

She almost managed to stab the male Weatherman, but the female gunned her down with an automatic round to the chest. They shoved a medication cart out of the way and went around the corner, arriving in the NICU where several babies were being triaged.

"Let's do it!" the male terrorist said.

They killed a doctor as they forced their way into the first room where a young mother had been singing to her premature child. The Weathermen grabbed her as Deanna walked over to the 1-day old infant with her pistol drawn. The woman screamed in completely turmoil.

"Stop! Please! I don't even know you!"

"Were those women and children in that hospital in Hanoi given a chance to beg for their lives before American planes dropped tons of bombs on them?"

"That has nothing to do with me, please! And even the news mentioned that was an accident!" She didn't mention that the casualty figures were also significantly inflated by North Vietnam's communist propaganda machine.

"You stand by idly while this country murders innocent people around the world. I'm sick of people who think the life of a white Christian American is worth more than a child in another country that we're destroying."

Suddenly, there was the sound of shattered glass and deafening motorcycle engines as JT and the bikers crashed through the glass windows of the NICU waiting area and arrived on the scene. JT fired a burst from his Uzi and shot the female terrorist in the leg.

Deanna and the remaining Weatherman both rushed out of the room with their guns blazing. The female terrorist also opened fire into the hallway, forcing Clay to duck while Piney took a position by the corner. JT saw Deanna run down the hallway with the backpack.

"Take these guys out now! I'm going after her!" JT shouted.

As JT ran down the hallway in pursuit, one of the Weathermen tossed a hand grenade into the lounge. Piney took refuge in an adjacent restroom while Clay went back into the hallway. The blast destroyed the wall to the bathroom and sent the stalls collapsing on Piney but he came out shooting. He saw the female terrorist firing from the ground and finished her off with a shot to the chest. In the distance, they could hear police sirens as the remaining Charming PD squad cars pulled up at the hospital. Unser got out of his vehicle and felt a sudden bout of nausea as he saw the dead bodies littering the main entrance and lobby area.

The Weatherman remaining in the NICU area crouched behind the nurses desk next to the bodies of the nurses they had just shot and reloaded. He then picked up one of the nurses' bodies with him as he got up and blasted away at Piney. He was making his way toward the nursery where over ten newborns and their families were trapped, most of them huddling together in fear.

Piney fired back but the Weatherman blocked those shots with the nurse's body.

"You son of a bitch," Piney said as he fired furiously, making sure the Weatherman couldn't reach the nursery that easily. Gunfire also came from the opposite end of the hallway. The Charming police had now made their way into the NICU area and were engaging the Weatherman. The college student ducked into a storage room to reload. He then rolled a grenade down the hallway, forcing the police to retreat to a stairwell as the end of the hallway.

He then focused his attention on Piney, who squeezed off three more shots with his pistol. One of them struck the Weatherman in the shoulder, causing him to lean against the wall in main, but he quickly recovered and opened fire on the group of policemen that were coming, killing one of them with a burst to the chest.

He then made his way out of the closest, running toward another wing of the hospital. He opened fire back at Piney but Piney ducked behind a medication cart, the bullets striking several IV and nutrition bags instead, raining fluids all over the hallway. Piney then pushed the cart forward, opening fire furiously. One bullet went through the cart and struck Piney in the abdomen but he continued forward. He then stood up with his pistol and fired a single shot into the Weatherman's brain, the terrorist's forward motion continuing as he fell face down on the hallway in an expanding puddle of blood.

ST. THOMAS HOSPITAL – RADIOLOGY DEPARTMENT

JT wished he had a radio on him like he had during the battle in Vietnam, both to call in backup and to speak with someone with St. Thomas Hospital's floorplans to see where the heck she was going. While St. Thomas was the only hospital in Charming, JT had been healthy most of his life and hadn't spent much time there besides visiting a few friends undergoing surgery.

Deanna ran down a narrow hallway, entering the hospital's radiology department. She saw a technician run in front of her and immediately shot her in the chest, killing her instantly. She went around a corner and saw a young woman in scrubs cowering behind a medication cart in tears.

"Please, don't…" she begged.

Deanna smiled coldly and shot her in the head.

Was there some like of secret escape route that his target knew? Was there something about the building's structural aspects that Deanna was intending to target that that bomb in her backpack? Then a bright yellow and black sign caught his eye. It was the sign for the nuclear fallout shelter, which was added when this hospital was renovated back in 1950, when the events in Berlin and the Korean Peninsula threatened to trigger a larger confrontation with the Soviet Union.

He whirled around the corner and saw her, but she was waiting and ready to engage with her Makarov pistol.

JT was taken surprise as two bullets from Deanna's gun whizzed right by his head and slammed into an office, shattering a video screen where a patient's chest x-ray images were displayed. JT returned fire and ducked behind a chair, Deanna's next three shots hitting the office wall. When he heard the next break in the gunfire, JT rushed out of the room and charged down the hallway, emptying his clip and putting a new one in. He also took out a gun he had taken from a dead security guard at the hospital entrance.

Then he saw the rather bulky backpack with the UC Berkeley mascot on it sitting alone, and sure enough, right beyond it was the nuclear fallout shelter. Made sense for it to be off the radiology department as they would have sensors to take into the shelter to check if the containment was intact in the event the Soviets did launch a nuclear ballistic missile into Charming.

He saw that there was actually a piece of blast-proof glass allowing rescuers to see into the fallout shelter and vice versa. Sure enough, Deanna was in there with a remote detonator in case the timing mechanism failed to trigger the explosion. JT could picture the scenes of chaos elsewhere in the hospital as staff and law enforcement officers frantically tried to evacuate everyone they could.

JT fired several shots into the door lock, but to no avail. The shelter was impenetrable though the radio signals but still work for Deanna to be there with the detonator. Meanwhile, the timer on the bomb was definitely counting down, with less than 5 minutes He was at a dead end here, except for one option. And it was one he had never tried before, but he had no other choice left. JT picked up the telephone attached to the wall that was the only means of contacting the inside of the shelter.

"I know who you are, Deanna! I remember you from the Sunvalley Mall!"

"Fuck you!" Deanna shouted into the intercom in the shelter.

"I bet you don't even have any real idea what you're doing this for!" JT said.

"Oh I know very well why I have to do this, just like we had to kill those war criminals at the military credit union!" Deanna paused. "I guess you're so used to having all the power when you're killing poor defenseless villagers and indigenous freedom fighters in Vietnam. We're speaking out for those subjugated around the world who are dying everyday because of American capitalist imperialism!"

"You don't know a damn thing about the world, Deanna." The countdown continued. There was no way him nor anyone can defuse the bomb in the time they had left. "All you know is what people like Professor Rogers and those hacks in the media chose to tell you."

Deanna laughed proudly at JT. "Coming from you? A fucking, Bible thumping, racist hick from Charming who probably never even left this podunk little down before going to war for the government like an ignorant little pawn? People here need to know what America's doing to the rest of the world and pay for the part they're playing in it!"

She continued her rant. "And yeah I know all about Charming. You people think you're so great and down to Earth. You go to the gas station and you act all friendly with the cashier making small talk while you put a dollar or two into a collection jar on that counter for some kid with cancer. You don't care that that cashier can't raise a family on minimum wage! You don't even think about the fact that if we had single payer healthcare, that kid's family or church wouldn't have to have a collection jar on a fucking checkout counter or have a stupid little community cookout to make money."

"It's you who've lived in a sheltered, pathetic little bubble your entire life! You think you know the world cause you've taken a few of Professor Rogers's classes, been to a few rallies and Bob Marley shows and heard Saul Alinsky speak a few times on campus. I got my first job when I was 15. My family and my friends, we know what its like to work hard for what we have. For all your self-righteousness, I'll bet you've never worked behind a cash register a single day in your life. Oh, that's for people beneath you. You pay for your fancy little car yourself? You have a single fucking friend who didn't go to college?"

Deanna was silent.

"Well do you? Figures," JT said, then went on. "And you just accused me of being a racist. Tell me, how many black or Hispanic friends do you have? Yeah, you march alongside the Nation of Islam and the Brown Berets of Aztlan but you ever had a black or Hispanic person in your home who wasn't there to clean it? Well let me tell you something. The reason I started this club, the reason we came after you was because you murdered one of my closest friends, a man named Otis Cross. Not that it even matters to any of us, but he happened to be black. Otis saved my life in Vietnam when the government decided to hang us out to dry. One of our guys in my club is a Mexican American who was born and bred in Charming. We never saw him as a Mexican. He was just one of the good ol' boys just like the rest of us. That's something I don't expect you to understand."

Deanna still didn't respond, but JT saw some hesitation appear on her face, and she was now beginning to visibly sweat more and her tight grip on the trigger was slightly loosening even as she continued looking at the timer on the bomb. She must be wondering what JT was still doing there as unlike the bedridden patients, JT could still escape the hospital before the explosion. The Weathermen would have abandoned each other, like they had when she was in jail, but JT still stood here in an attempt to save his fellow citizens.

"And I know people like you, Deanna," JT said finally. "People like my cousin who are going to raise their family the way you were raised. You see, all that talk about speaking out for the voiceless? Deep down its _you_ who truly feels voiceless and powerless. I've seen what it's like. Your whole life's been planned for you. Every decision in your life's been made for you. Simply graduating from high school or even going to community college was never an option for you. You're going to get that fancy degree at Berkeley, and then you're going to go to grad school or you're totally worthless in your parents' eyes. Professor Rogers knows that too! He channeled that for his own twisted cause! You hate the world you were raised in, and you're willing to latch on to any cause to rebel against it! If it wasn't socialism it would be something else, anything to give your life some purpose.

"It's your own life that's empty, and killing all these innocent people in this hospital isn't going to change that!"

A tear fell from Deanna's eyes as she realized the truth of what JT was saying. "There's no going back for me. We've come too far."

"You can still stop, Deanna," JT said. "Trust me, you don't want any more blood on your hands."

She was now trembling in a rather pathetic way as the false reality the Weather Underground had built collapsed around her. She had let Rogers and the other Weathermen convince her it was about America's sins in Vietnam, but in the end it was really about her. She also resented the life she saw in Charming because it was a life she could never live.

"Please, Deanna. You can end this right now."

JT braced for what he assumed would be explosion as Deanna pushed some more buttons. But there was nothing, and when JT opened his eyes again, the timer was dark. With the clock off, JT fired a shot into the trigger to permanently disable it just as Wayne Unser came in with three other Charming police officers.

"JT! We've secured this section of the building! State police bomb squad's on the way!" Unser said as his men entered the fallout shelter and took Deanna into custody.

"It's over, Wayne," JT said, nodding at the disarmed device.

FBI HELICOPTER, AIRBORNE OVER CHARMING

"Well is the threat contained?" Special Agent Jarrett said into the radio.

"Yes, sir! We need a bomb squad here to dispose of the device but it's been deactivated. All the terrorists are dead, including Walt Rogers."

"Okay, the bomb squad's on the way. Keep me posted with any new developments." He disconnected the radio and turned to Smalls and the pilot. "Okay, that situation's stable for now. We'll continue to Teller Automotive and see what's up with JT. Maybe he can lead us to Tasker."

"If JT and the other Sons are there, should we attempt to take them alive?" Smalls asked.

"No," he answered. "Washington's going to want some answers about what happened here today and it's going to be our ass on the line. This is our way of distancing ourselves from this mess. We'll blame it on Tasker, and on the Sons for provoking this attack. The way the mood is now in most of the country, the American public will easily blame some psychotic Vietnam veterans. The Weathermen only arose in response to what America's doing in the world."

TELLER AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR

"We're here. Looks like something went on down there. Somebody crashed a truck through the gate and we got bullet holes and shell casings everywhere."

Jarrett ordered a fly-by of he scene with the gunners leaning out of the FBI helicopter, watching for any signs of armed men anywhere on the garage property. "It looks clear now," said the pilot. "Party's over already."

"Set her down," Jarrett ordered, "And secure the area. Stay alert, we still don't know who the hell's inside."

Several armed agents hopped out of the chopper and rushed through the cloud of dust, some of them checking the area of the lot full of parked vehicles while others prepared to enter the building. "Wonder what on Earth happened here," one of them commented as he saw the inside of the garage strewn with weapons and bloodstains.

HIGHWAY 99, CHARMING

JT and the rest of the club except Lenny were now riding southbound on the Highway 99 bypass. Clay, Chico and the others had gone up to the hospital to drop off Lenny at the emergency room so he could have his crash injuries treated, and they were now taking the loop around downtown Charming and approaching the exit they usually used to get to their clubhouse.

After a while, the traffic died down completely, and the freeway was completely deserted in front of them.

"Weird," JT said, "The 99's never this empty not even at midnight."

"They're probably not letting people go to far yet, until they make sure there's no other bombs around Charming," Chico said.

"No, there's something wrong about this. Definitely something wrong. We're taking the next exit and heading to the Wahewa reservation."

It was then that he realized the next exit, along with the rest of the highway was blocked off the FBI vehicle and several unmarked FBI vehicles and agents with their weapons drawn.

Agent Jarrett saw the Sons of Anarchy bikers arriving and shouted into the bullhorn. "John Teller and the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club. This is the FBI! You will stop immediately and dismount your bikes or you will be fired upon!"

JT continued to go forward. He looked to the right and saw that unfortunately this part of the Route 99 Bypass was lined by an irrigation canal that was too wide for their bikes to jump across, and in any case the FBI helicopter would be able to hunt them down from the air if they tried to escape into open country.

The FBI gunners opened fire in front of the bikes, kicking up pieces of blacktop. JT finally eased to a stop, as did the others.

"Take off all your kuttes and thrown them to the ground! Drop your weapons! Hands where we can see them!" Jarrett demanded loudly.

None of the bikers moved at all, and JT's hands were firmly on his AR-15.

"If anyone has a shot, take it!" Jarrett said to his men.

"I got it!" Agent Smalls radioed and took aim at JT. As his finger squeezed the trigger, however, a sudden gust of wind came down from the hills, causing his bullets to strike the wheels of JT's motorcycle instead and he fell over onto the blacktop along with his bike.

Suddenly they all heard the echo of two rifle shots then Smalls's lifeless body fell forward off the overpass, standing in the middle of the highway. Several agents opened up with their bolt-action shotguns and automatic weapons on the rooftops and the treeline but couldn't find any targets. Suddenly some sirens appeared and Unser came out of his squad car after pulling up at the scene.

"Hold your fire!" he shouted, then red crosshairs appeared in the middle of Jarrett's chest and on the bodies of the other FBI agents in their tactical gear.

The FBI agents continued to fire and then more gunfire came from a billboard on the right side of the highway.

"Stop firing! That's an order! Stop shooting! Stand down! Jesus Christ!" Jarrett shouted in a panic as the automatic weapons fire died down. He watched as over a dozen armed civilians appeared from the surrounding area with their sights all still trained on him and his agents. It was clear that Unser had a role in planning this counter ambush. Police chief Hancock and Officer Tincher were also there with their flashing lights, pointing their service weapons at the FBI agents rather than the civilians. JT, Piney, and the other Sons dismounted their bikes and also removed their firearms from inside their kuttes.

Unser walked over to JT, who looked at him in shock. "We just overheard on the chatter that they intended to stage a shootout and kill all of you," Unser said. "We couldn't let that happen, especially after y'all just saved this town."

JT nodded, a quick plan forming in his mind. "Whatever I say, just play along. We're both getting out of here."

"Officer Unser, Chief Hancock, what the hell is this?" Jarrett demanded incredulously.

"Your unit is surrounded on all sides! You will listen to what we have to say. You make one wrong move, and you're all dead!" Unser shouted. Jarrett looked around at the civilians then at the local police. "You think you're starting another insurrection again, are you guys? You good ol' country boys want to fight another war with Washington? We all know how that turned out in 1865!"

"We'll do what we must in order to protect our own," JT said. "This is Charming."

JT and his men could see the FBI sharpshooters make a futile attempt to acquire targets, but while they had attempted to ambush the Sons and provoke a shootout to justify the use of force, what even JT didn't know was that Unser, the Charming PD, and the armed locals, fresh from the knowledge of what the Sons of Anarchy had done for them, had set up a wider cordon and created an even larger ambush.

"You son of a bitch," Jarrett snarled at JT.

"This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you boys," JT said, then smirked. "Kinda makes me feel good. Glad to know there's still people in this country who appreciate people like me. Gotta love Charming, right?"

"You shut the fuck up and listen to me, John Teller. I, and every federal agent under my command, will make it my life's mission to finish you, and each and every one of your men. Wherever you are in this world, I'm going to find you, and I'm going to put a fucking bullet in your head, just like you did to Mark Tasker. Yeah, Tasker was a real pain in the ass, but he was one of us. And all of these yahoo buddies of you who showed up on their own accord as you say, they know about that? That they're obstructing a federal law enforcement action?"

"You won't do a thing to this club," JT said evenly, looking Jarrett straight in the eye. "Not today, and not ever."

"Oh you really so sure about that?"

"You make one wrong move, you may kill us, but all of you will be dead. As for another day, let's just say that we have our leverage." JT reached into his kutte pocket and revealed a tape recorder with a cassette tape inside. "This is what happened in the last useful minutes of Agent Tasker's miserable, pathetic life."

Jarrett visibly squirmed as he heard Tasker's screams of pain and fear as JT and his club members tortured the corrupt agent for information regarding the attack. "And if you go to your friends in the media to smear us, the public will also know it was your man who collaborated with a terrorist organization to launch an attack against American citizens. You see, Mr. Jarrett, I've already made several copies of this tape and they're in the hands of people I trust. If I ever die by your hand, or get arrested, copies of this tape will be sent to all of the major news stations. Yes, the media cares about their agenda, but above all, they care about their ratings."

It was clear that Agent Jarrett had been beat, and that his plans of setting up a massacre of the Sons was turned on their head. He didn't know if there really were copies of the recording, but he couldn't risk it. He despised JT and everything about him, but ultimately knew that JT was a man of his word. If he didn't go after him again, then the recording would not be released and Tasker's involvement in the failed Weather Underground attack would remain secret. That would be in the best interests of the Bureau, he decided.

"Stand down!" Jarrett ordered his men, then some of the agents took Agent Smalls's body and dragged it back into one of his vehicles. There would also be no charges into his death as Smalls had participated in their own conspiracy and had opened fire first on JT.

JT nodded at Jarrett. "You go on now, and get the fuck out of my town."


End file.
